


Tonight the Stars Revolt

by deinvati



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Inception (2010), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Divergent Timelines, F/M, Fandoms Collide, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: The Tesseract opened a portal in New York--as well as hundreds of other portals all over the world.  The Avengers need help to push back the monsters coming through and close them before the world unravels.  And as luck would have it, there's already a group of people who are adept at dealing with monsters and stopping the world from unraveling.Hunters.Problem is, when Dean and Sam get to the final one, kill the blue-eyed zombies coming through, and shut the portal down for good, they leave one red-headed Queen of the North on the wrong side.





	1. Dean Meets the Annoying Stark

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know this is a lot of fandoms. But hear me out! There's a reason!
> 
> Lystan made me do it.
> 
> During a period where both of our muses had fucked off, we challenged each other to write down a list of characters we liked and then select a random prompt. Then write the first thing that came to mind.
> 
> My prompt was: "If [Dean (Supernatural)] and [Sansa (GoT)] got married, what would [Arthur (Inception)] and [Natasha Romanov (MCU)] bring to their wedding?
> 
> Well, obviously, I had to figure out how those four would even know each other. This gloriousness is the result. I have had _so much fun_ writing this ridiculous fic that I had to post it. I hope others like it too, but honestly, seeing my faves "on screen" together and figuring out in what universe they would ever be combined made my whole damn month. 
> 
> This is not canon-compliant for any of the four fandoms, but the characters still ring true. This is a Supernatural universe where Castiel doesn't exist because I cannot write Cas without Destiel. I just can't do it. Set sometime after the Avengers movie and Season 7 of Supernatural, and I'm writing it before the final season of GoT airs.
> 
> Anyway, if you got this far, thank you for giving it a chance! Enjoy!
> 
> My everpresent thanks to Lystan, for being my reason, and to Mousie, Flos and Oce for reading this thing (multiple times) regarding fandoms they don't really care about just because they care about me. You guys are the BEST. Seriously.

The tower was nice, he'd give them that. The people on the other hand...

"This is it?" Tony Stark asked. "What are you two? The Midwest division of the 'Hit Scary Things Really Hard' Club?"

Dean, who had just settled into the fanciest chair his ass had ever sat on, stood back up. "Okay. We're done here."

Sam stood also, with a nose sigh which said, 'Dean is being unreasonable, but I am standing by him, even if I don't want to.' Dean glared at him.

"Oh, sit down, Paul Bunyan." Tony waved at him impatiently, pulling a sheaf of papers forward.

Dean, who was  _not_  going to sit down, thank you, gave him a tight smile and tried to think of anything other than punching Iron Man in the face. What a dick. "Look, can I remind you that you assholes called us? Remember? Do you know how far of a drive this is?"

Tony looked at him over the top of his completely unnecessary sunglasses. "I literally don't. I fly everywhere. What about you guys?" he said, looking around the oval-shaped conference table. "Hmm? Anyone else driving these days? Point Break? Oh, no, that's right, you fly too. Vision? No? Hmm. What about you, Rogers? Barton? You guys are walkers. What's the drive like from here to Nebraska?"

"Kansas," Dean snapped.

Tony blinked and looked genuinely confused. "What's the difference?"

"Hm, maybe we can talk about what's going on," Black Widow stressed.

Dean looked at her appraisingly. " _Thank_  you, Ms. Widow. Can I call you Black?"

She looked like she was going to laugh as she said, "Natasha is fine," but everyone else around the table just looked at him flatly.

"What?" Dean challenged.

"What's been going on," Steve Rogers broke in, "is the portals opened by the Tesseract have been letting through some very… interesting characters."

"You're telling us," said Sam. "Bit of a wake-up call even for hunters, and that's saying something."

"Yeeeaahh, when you say 'hunters'..." Tony Stark broke in, and Dean bristled at his tone and his implied finger quotes.

"I mean people like us," he snapped, glad he'd stayed standing. He indicated himself and Sam, road-weary and wrinkled, and ready to go anyway. "I mean people who have been doing this crap our whole lives without a big fan club or action figures, okay? Fighting monsters is what we do."

"We know, Dean," Captain America said. "That's why you're here. We need your help, and any other hunter you know. We're in an all-hands-on-deck kind of situation right now, and we need to work together to get the portals closed. We heard you guys were the ones to talk to. Something about saving the world a time or two before? Sounds like we owe you some thanks."

Dean looked at Sam who nodded the go-ahead. "Alright," Dean said, crossing his arms. "Fine. What do you need?"


	2. Sansa Gets Stuck

Sansa could only see the flash of Ghost's fur between the trees. She had no idea where the path had gone in the dark, but Ghost's guidance was good enough for her. The glimpses she caught were enough to let her know that he was purposefully slowing down for her, and she was grateful.

Her corset cut into her waist. Brambles clawed at her skirts. The soles of her boots were useless to help her feel out tree roots and too thin to keep her from stubbing her toe on them. She was running for her life, and so far, she was keeping ahead of the horror at her heels. But with every rasp of her own breath, she could feel them drawing closer.

A flash of blue light made her veer away on instinct. Then, without a sound, Ghost was next to her, steering her toward it. She glanced at him between dodging trees but trusted him, and he pulled ahead, leading the way. As she drew nearer, she could see the blue light wasn't coming from one of the undead— it was a long, vertical strip, fizzling and floating in midair. If Sansa hadn't been too scared to look at the death coming from behind her, she would have wondered what the hell it was and what it was doing there. As it was, she slowed, only to watch Ghost jump through the rift without hesitating and disappear.

"Ghost!" she tried to scream after him, but it came out as a gasp as she stumbled to a halt. She could hear voices on the other side, but could only see darkness and more trees.

An unholy screech from behind her made up her mind. She held her breath and launched herself at the floating space. She could only hope the wolf's instincts would protect them because she was slowing, and the dead would never stop.

Passing through the rip in the air was like walking into a warm breath of autumn. She stumbled to the ground on the other side, barely keeping her feet, and was relieved to see Ghost's shock of white fur.

"Freeze! Don't move!"

"Sammy! Shoot it, what the hell!"

Sansa jerked to her full height as two men in strange clothing confronted her. The one closest to her was pointing a large knife at her, but the other one…

"No!" she screamed.

She launched herself between the man holding a metal weapon and Ghost, who had already lifted his muzzle in a terrifying snarl. She'd seen men with swords change their mind about their prowess in the face of a direwolf. But this man, pointing something small and shieldless at Ghost, didn't appear to be backing down.

"Please!" she begged, backing closer to the wolf, trying to catch her breath enough to explain that Ghost wasn't the enemy. Weakness overwhelmed her, and she locked her knees against it. "I beg you. Help us," she gasped, her legs buckling anyway as she sagged against Ghost's neck.

The two men looked at each other and lowered their weapons.

"They're coming," she said, her voice high and reedy. She swallowed. "The dead are coming."

That seemed to spur them into action, and Sansa sank gratefully to the ground, her limbs shaking as the men veered around her towards the rip in the air.

"Sammy?"

"On it."

Sansa scrambled back, her hands buried in Ghost's fur, and refused to let the fear take over. There was no time for that. She wasn't free, she wasn't safe, not yet; maybe not ever. She watched over Ghost's back, everything in the North falling apart, but she was still responsible, still relied upon by so many…

"Tony. You got it? Yeah. Close it down. No, you gotta do it _now_. Yeah."

The taller of the two spoke into a small box he held to his ear, and then they both stood back, weapons raised. Sansa shivered and shrank down as she heard the advance on the other side of the pulsing tear. The blue light bathed the surrounding trees with a ghostly pale radiance. She didn't know if she'd be able to stand up even if the swarm started to claw their way through the opening.

The screech was closer. Too close. It was on the other side. She could see them, swarming, and then they broke through.

"Jesus, here they come!" one of them shouted, but Sansa couldn't hear any more. They climbed over each other, coming for her, and she felt the scream build in her throat.

A blinding streak of light seared the night sky targeting the opening, the edges sizzling with fire, and Sansa's eyes widened as it started to burn its way closed.

She jumped as the metal object in the man's hand exploded, although neither of the two of them seemed surprised. They all watched as the wights came through the shrinking hole, the limbs they'd managed to get through being severed as it closed.

Both men were ready, pointing small explosions at the wriggling arms in various states of decay, still clawing their way forward across the ground. Faster and faster, the undead seemed to sense their prey being denied to them, and they howled their rage through the narrowing opening.

The rip in the air narrowed to a sliver and then disappeared, just as one of the undead managed to slip through. His body was ripped in half at the waist and screaming for her.

"Sammy! Shoot it!"

"I'm trying!"

Their explosions only slowed the blue-eyed devil down, jerking backward at the impact. And still he crawled toward her, faster than she could back up. Sansa kicked out with the heels of her boot as she reached behind her, looking for anything she could use to defend herself.

"Sammy!"

Ghost growled, but before he could attack, Sansa's palm brushed a fallen branch and she swung with all her might.

There was a sickening  _crunch_  and the wight's skull collapsed under the impact. Sansa swung again, the scream she'd been holding back tearing out of her throat. The second blow landed on top of the skull and the horrible blue eyes dimmed and went out.

Sansa staggered to her feet, her fingers wound in Ghost's fur, but he pulled away from her, wary of the corpse on the ground. She had an odd, childish longing for Lady instead, her wolf, to protect her, to understand. But she was alone as she took in the two men, breathing heavily as they stared at her.

"Fire," she said. "You must burn it."

"That," said the shorter of the two, "we can do."

With a flick of his wrist, he produced a small flame and the other a small canister from a back pocket. Faster than she could speak, they had doused the skeleton with oil and set it ablaze. They rounded up the odd, but still moving, hand or arm and threw those on the pile, all of them watching until there was no more movement.

When she was sure there was no more danger, Sansa moved carefully to where the last glimpse of her home had disappeared. She stepped back over where the boundary had been, but there was no answering breath of warm air, no snow or white walkers, no Winterfell. No North. Just dark, unfamiliar forest surrounding her, and two dark and unfamiliar men at her back.

She swept her hair out of her eyes and held her head high. She was a queen, and even if this place was not hers to rule, she would always be a Stark. And Winter was always coming. Sansa drew in a breath and turned to face these two, who had threatened her, then saved her, and then marooned her in a strange land.

She was met with a face full of water. She closed her eyes and gaped as it dripped off her chin and soaked her dress front.

"What…?" she said to the shorter of the two men, his scruffy face unapologetic as he splashed another bout of water towards Ghost. Ghost just looked at him balefully, shook, and then trotted farther away, glaring.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry, "just checking."

She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and tried not to be as insulted as she was. He didn't know she was a queen, but she had a strong feeling he'd have splashed water in her face even if he had known. Maybe he'd have done it faster.

He reached into the pocket of his odd clothing and produced something she finally recognized. A handkerchief. She accepted it when he handed it to her, and she fingered the oddly scratchy, unadorned material before using it to dry her face. He must not be from a noble family if there was no one to do needlework.

"So," he said, recapping the small flagon of water, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She looked around the small clearing, choosing her words carefully. "And where is this, exactly?"

"Montana," he grunted.

"Montana?" she said, rolling the strange word around in her mouth. "Is that south of the Wall?"

The men both blinked at her. They didn't have their weapons out anymore, but she could see in their eyes their armor being donned.

"Where are you from?" asked the taller one gently.

Her heart sank. "I'm… I'm from the North."

"What, like Canada?"

She stared at them, trying to push down the rising panic. "Can I ask your name, sir. And your house."

"I'm Dean," said the shorter of the two. "Winchester. And this is my brother, Sam."

The taller man nodded at her and smiled politely. She nodded back and raised herself to her full height.

"I am Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North, and I would like to be returned to my home if possible."

Dean and Sam exchanged another look. "Yeah, look, lady— " Dean started, and Sansa bristled.

"That's correct," she broke in. "You may call me Lady Sansa." She folded her hands demurely at her waist and waited, but she'd just almost been killed by the undead. She wasn't going to be knocked off kilter by him, and shame on him for thinking he could.

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, alright, but that was the last one. We closed all of the other Tesseract openings already. We were supposed to be done after this." He put his hands on his hips and she could see his jaw muscles clench.

"Maybe there's a way Tony can—"

"You know he's not going to do that," Dean said, cutting Sam off. "Hell, I wouldn't do it, and neither would you. It's too dangerous."

"Dean…"

"What?" he snapped, and Sansa just watched, her hands folded. He was angry, edgy in a way he hadn't been when he'd been waiting for the wights to come pouring through the shrinking opening. Whatever had him upset was more worrisome than the undead.

He stalked off into the darkness and Sam sighed through his nose.

"Look," he said, nervous for someone so large. "You're going to be okay, alright? We'll figure something out. For now, is there somewhere we can take you? Do you have… family? Friends?"

She blinked at him, slowly, waiting for him to realize. She glanced pointedly at the spot of air where everything she'd known, loved, and hated, had disappeared in a flash of blue light and blue eyes.

Sam flashed a tight smile. "Right. Okay, well, why don't you come with us for now, and we'll find a police station or something and someone can help you."

She glanced at the space again and then looked back at Sam. "I do not know what a police station is, or who would believe the story I would tell them. So I would assume that the people most capable of helping me are the ones who saw it too."

He gave that tight smile again, this time at his shoes, and she watched him. "Right. Um. Well, come on, we'll figure something out."

She nodded. When he turned, she called to Ghost.

"Woah," Sam said, glancing nervously between her and the direwolf as he trotted up beside her. "Wait, you're not bringing that… are you?"

She swallowed at the thought of losing the only remaining part of her home, then remembered she was Queen in the North even when she wasn't in the North. She looked down her nose at Sam even though he towered above her.

"He will follow whether you want him to or not, I presume. He does what he wants, but you are welcome to try and stop him."

"Well, he's not going to fit in the car," Sam said with a chuckle, and Sansa didn't know what that meant, but he was leading the way and she had no choice but to follow.


	3. Dean Doesn't Have to Take this Crap

Dean tossed the phone on the table and stood in exasperation. "I need a drink," he grumbled. "You want one?"

"Uh, nah," Sam said, not looking away entirely from whatever he was looking at on his screen.

Dean looked at him closer, but Sammy just seemed caught up. Whatever. It's not like they just stranded some girl, woman, person in a strange world. Nothing about that should bother him.

He sloshed some whiskey in a glass, hesitated, then just grabbed the whole bottle and brought it with him. At the last second, he grabbed another glass too.

"Man, I thought we were going to be done with this bullcrap after we closed the last one," he said, settling into the chair again. "I'm exhausted."

Sam grunted.

Dean watched him over the rim of his glass. "Man, aren't you even a little bit annoyed that we somehow got saddled with this job that never ends?"

Sam did that thing he did where he tried to pull himself away from the computer to look at you, but couldn't quite manage it. "Not really."

Dean sighed. "What are you even looking at, man? Tesseract portal opening lore? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're not going to find it on Google."

Sam looked at him finally, annoyed out of his daze, and gestured to the laptop. "I'm trying to find out anything about any of the stuff Sansa mentioned. 'Westeros', 'Winterfell', the 'Lannisters'… I can't find anything."

Dean blinked. "So?"

"So!?" Sam gestured to the screen again. "So even when that thing with Oz happened, that was weird, but at least we'd  _heard_  of Oz. Which meant there was some connection between our worlds before. This, though, there's nothing."

"So Walt Disney got zapped to Oz and back, instead of Westeros. Big deal."

"Walt Disney didn't…" Sam sighed through his nose. "Never mind. What I'm saying is, where  _is_ this place? Another planet? An alternate universe? Another time stream? The time period seems to be in the past, but not an Earth past. So how do we get her back there?"

"Sam, come on. You know as well as I do that the only way she's getting back there is through the Tesseract, and Fury isn't going to let that thing out of his sight until Thor takes it back with him. If it's even still here."

Sam's mouth tightened and he looked back at the computer. Stubbornly, he started typing again as Dean finished his drink.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, each absorbed in their own thoughts before Dean's got too loud and he gritted his teeth.

"What is she doing in there, anyway?"

Sam looked towards the doorway that led to the living quarters. "Probably enjoying the largest water heater built in the 1950s. She didn't know how to work the shower, so she's probably just figuring stuff out. She's fine, Dean."

"Actually, I was wondering," came the light, British accented voice from the hallway, "are you sure this clothing is… appropriate for a lady?"

Dean looked at Sam and rolled his eyes. Sam just smirked and said, "Sorry, it's just sweats and a t-shirt, but it's all we had. I'm sure it'll be fine until we can get to a laundromat."

With that, Sansa entered the room, her head held high and looking every inch a queen even though she was dressed in some of Dean's clothes. Dean's eyes widened because he hadn't been aware of quite how thin that old t-shirt had gotten. Or how apparently cold it was in the bunker.

With a jerk, he cleared his throat and stared at a wall somewhere, and he could hear Sam shuffling on the other side of him. Yeah, okay, that sight was going to keep him warm for a few nights.

"I'll, uh," he said, standing up, "get you a robe."

"Thank you, Ser Dean," she said primly, "that would be very appreciated."

Jesus. "Uh, yeah. Just Dean is fine." Dean hightailed it out of the room before he embarrassed himself, and damn, it had been too long if he couldn't keep it together better than that.

In his room, the comfy gray robe he wore when he was laying around all day was hanging limply on the back of his door. He shook it out and wondered when it had last been washed. A sniff assured it wasn't too bad, although it probably wasn't fit for royalty. He checked once more, but there weren't a lot of other choices, so she'd have to deal until they could get her highness some clothes of her own. And a bra.

That wasn't a good train of thought if he planned on leaving his room again anytime soon, so he spent a few seconds thinking about the vampire nest they'd cleared the week before the first Tesseract hole had opened. That made him think about closing the portals, which made him clench his jaw, and yeah, that was better.

When he entered the kitchen again, Sansa was sitting stiffly in one of the chairs talking to Sam, and Sam was smiling at something she'd said. Dean shoved the robe at her.

"Thank you," she said, standing to swirl it around herself like a cape. Then she looked down at it and put her arms in the sleeves and, damn, if she didn't look good in his clothes. Her red hair was still damp and pulled back from her face in a braid. Her pale skin didn't have a speck of makeup and Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone so beautiful. She  _looked_ like a damn queen, that was for sure.

"So, your highness," he said, throwing as much condescension as he could muster on the word. "You sure your dog isn't going to maul anyone before morning?"

If she heard the sneer in his voice, she didn't respond, just looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think he went far. And he's a direwolf."

Sam's eyes lit up and his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Hey! Found something. Check this out. 'The dire wolf,'" he read, "'is an extinct species closely related to the Gray Wolf, although it is not the direct ancestor of any species known today. It is one of the most famous prehistoric carnivores in North America, along with its extinct competitor, the saber-toothed cat.'"

There was a silence, then Sansa said, "I do not understand why this is of interest."

"Yeah, what she said."

Sam glared at him then turned the screen so they could see the artist's concept drawing, which could have been Ghost's cousin. "It means our worlds have a common thread somewhere. Which means we still might be able to get you home."

Sansa had a pretty good poker face, but her eyes lit up with hope. She gave Sam a thin smile. "Then I have a request. I'm going to need one of you to quickly show me how to invent showers."

Dean couldn't help it. He smiled. "Those both sound like tomorrow kinds of things. Drink?" He scooted the empty glass Sam hadn't wanted toward her and she gave him a nod. He gave her a generous portion and refilled his own, then watched with fascination as she proceeded to drink whiskey the way you'd drink iced tea. Long, slow pulls, one after another, until the glass was empty.

His eyebrows were raised, but he shrugged and refilled her glass. She gave him an odd look before sitting back in her chair. "I have so many questions about this world, but I fear I may bore you to ask more of them."

Dean put his foot on the chair across from him and looked at her. "It's been a long day for all of us. I say we just get some sleep, call the other, more annoying Stark in the morning, and we'll see what he says. Hell, maybe we'll have you on your way before you need another shower. You won't even miss them."

Her old eyes, set in her young face, studied him but didn't look convinced. But she nodded and stood up, taking her glass with her. "Then I shall say goodnight, kind sirs."

Sam stood too, but Dean just raised his glass and put his other boot on the chair. "Night."

"Good night, Lady Sansa."

She nodded and left, and Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. "What, you're not going to offer to show her how the bed works?"

Sam glared at him. "No, but did you want to go ask if she needs anything else to wear?"

Dean glared back, grabbed his glass and the bottle, and headed for bed. He didn't need to take that crap from his little brother.


	4. Nat Buys a Crossbow.  Probably.

Dean's message was short, terse, and angry, but Nat had learned that's how he got when he was worried. She didn't know if she'd go so far as to say "scared" because she was fairly sure the Winchesters didn't get scared anymore, but "worried" he did a lot.

"Nat, it's Dean. We've got good news and bad news. Good news: the last Tesseract opening is closed. Bad news: someone else came through before we closed it, and now we've got to try and get her back home somehow. Call me back."

Well. She slow blinked at her phone and tried to imagine a more unlikely scenario than Fury, or Tony, for that matter, agreeing to open any of the portals back up now that they'd finally gotten them contained.

"Trouble?"

She glanced at Clint, casually flipping through an Avid Outdoorsman magazine on one of the couches at base, even though she knew he would rather be home.

"Maybe. It's from Dean. He said we've got someone who came through a portal and now we need to get them back through."

Clint looked up at her, squinting. "What kind of someone?"

Nat thought about that. "Not sure… he said we needed to "get her back home", so it sounds like she's not a threat."

Clint raised his eyebrows and went back to his magazine. "Well, good luck convincing Tony of that then."

She sighed and settled next to him on the couch, angling her body language his way. "Does that mean you're not going to help me?" She widened her eyes and parted her lips and made sure to brush him lightly with her open jacket.

"Nope."

There was no inflection in his voice, no ulterior motive, just a simple "no," which was just that simple. God, sometimes he was infuriating.

She tried not to grit her teeth because he could see her perfectly well even though he was still reading the magazine. "Why?"

"Because I can already see the end of this argument from here, and you're not going to win this one."

She put her hand on the back of the couch, still inches away, the zipper of her jacket still rubbing lightly on his arm. "I have a hard time believing you don't want to try though. Might be fun." She gave him a sly smile.

Clint flipped a page.

"Ooh, look, crossbows are on sale."

Nat rolled her eyes. Tony was easier than this. She knew when to cut her losses.

She stood to call Dean back because she did her best thinking on her feet. She left it on speaker phone because Clint was a softie and "her" and "home" meant more to him than he would admit. "Dean? It's Nat. Everything alright?"

"Nat, okay, good, okay. How do you know what size bra to buy?"

Clint looked up at her and then pointedly back down at his magazine.

"Uh..." she laughed a little, "measuring. Why? You looking to expand your wardrobe? I'd say you're an A cup."

"Yeah, you're frigging hilarious. Can you help me or not?"

God, why was she surrounded by men who expressed love as anger? Did she have some kind of magnet built into her DNA that attracted them?

"Take her to an actual lingerie store, Dean. No _, not_  that one. The saleswomen will help. What is going on?"

There was a sigh and she could see Clint wasn't even pretending to read the magazine anymore.

"Her name is Sansa Stark, she says she's some kind of queen where she's from, wherever the hell that is. Sam has some theory that involves saber tooth tigers or some crap, and I'm stuck trying to decide if queens want low rise jeans, or ones with diamonds on the ass, or both."

Nat licked away a smile before she answered. "Have you asked her?"

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, she said I could just bring her some fabric and a needle, and she could sew her own clothes."

"Well," Nat offered, "I could maybe come down and help—"

"Oh thank  _god_."

"— but that means I won't be here to help you run interference with the rest of the team. There won't be anyone here to talk them into letting you use the Tesseract to send her back."

There was silence on the other end. She looked at Clint and he gave her a pleading look, shoulders sagging.

"No."

She gave him a triumphant grin because they both knew she'd already won. "Or you could go clothes shopping. Come on. Might be fun."

Clint sighed and shut the magazine. "Fine. I'll talk to Bruce."

"Thanks, guys, you're awesome."

"You too, Dean," she said. "See you soon."

The call ended and she knew she looked a little smug as Clint stood.

He put his hands on her waist and drew her close. "There wasn't anyone else who could get her clothes? In the whole world? It had to be you?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and touched his nose with hers. "I'm very multi-talented."

"Overqualified, you mean."

She'd meant to tease him into a kiss and maybe even a smile, but he tipped their foreheads together and took a deep breath. "You'll come back soon?"

Her throat tightened. "Why? You gonna miss me?"

Clint pulled back and gave her a reproachful look. "I never miss anything."

She grinned. "Liar." Then she kissed him for real.


	5. Arthur Rolls with the Punches

They were on the second dream level when Arthur started to notice. Eames was the dreamer and the mark was playing along perfectly, following every prompt exactly according to plan. But the projections…

Eames was holding up a forge of the mark's secretary, trying to get the launch date out of the CEO, and Arthur was patrolling the office to keep the projections at bay. It wasn't something he normally noticed, people's teeth. Maybe Eames'. Okay, yes, he noticed Eames' teeth. But these teeth weren't sexy crooked grins. These were disturbing.

He started with a scoped rifle, as usual, taking out the lead projections from the office building windows. It was a calculated risk because sometimes the fire drew more projections than waiting, but when there were just the two of them in the second layer like this, he couldn't risk them getting overrun. This was one of the times, though, that the projections were on high alert.

At first, it was business as usual. The mob grew in size, but they were normal, angry projections. It was as they got closer that Arthur started to notice the open-mouthed lunge, mouths full of needle-like teeth that put him in mind of an angler fish. Then he realized they just kept getting back up after they'd been shot, and only a headshot would drop them. No wonder the mob kept getting bigger.

He switched to an RPG and stopped caring about accuracy. "Eames, we've got a problem out here."

There was no answer on the earpiece that connected them, but he trusted Eames would heed the warning.

He blew up two cars in the bottleneck, slowing the scramble of bodies, but not stopping it as he'd hoped.

"Shit."

He was re-shouldering the grenade launcher when Eames grabbed him by the arm.

"Time to go, darling."

"Thank fuck. You got it?"

Eames' grin was full of belovedly crooked teeth. Arthur grinned back and kissed him, suddenly needing the reassurance that Eames gave. Then he shot Eames in the head, wincing after Eames couldn't see him, the way he always did. Ah, well. Everyone had parts of their job they hated. The office building started to dissolve around him, and he took one last look at the approaching swarm of projections, an inhuman scream announcing their wrath, until he blinked awake on the first level.

"Arthur! What the bloody hell took you so long?"

The architect's panic was palpable even before he saw him. Arthur was on his feet, gun in hand, but Eames was already on the floor and the architect was pressing a bullet to Arthur's temple to kick him topside.

Once back in the dentist's office, the mark still soundly asleep in the chair, Arthur was fighting back nausea and packing up the PASIV as fast as he could. Eames quickly typed the details into the laptop he'd set up for him, and the architect was doing a half-ass job of wiping down fingerprints. Now that they were topside, it seemed like a job gone well. So why did he have this rock in his stomach?

The architect gave Arthur a sloppy salute and headed out the side entrance, as agreed. Arthur had wiped down surfaces once again and given a friendly nod to the hygienist, who was considerably richer for 20 minutes of looking the other direction. They didn't speak or even really look at each other until they were back at their hotel room, where Eames closed the door and immediately pulled Arthur against him.

Arthur clutched Eames back, let him soothe the unease and feeling of dread he'd brought out of the dreams.

"Why did you kiss me?"

Arthur blinked. "What?"

Eames pulled back to look at Arthur, his face grim. "You kissed me. On a job. In the dream. You've never done that before. I want to know why."

Arthur stiffened. "If you're calling me unprofessional, pot— "

"Of course I'm not." Eames barked, watching him, his lips a thin line. "I'm worried."

Arthur let his arms drop and took a deep breath. He plowed a hand through his hair, then swept it back and straightened his tie. "I'm fine. It was nothing. I overreacted. It won't happen again."

"Overreacted to  _what_ , darling?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It was  _nothing_. Every mark has a different subconscious, it's no big deal, Eames."

"Arthur, I am going to give you five bloody seconds to tell me what you saw or I will extract it from you in your sleep tonight."

Arthur scowled his best scowl, but Eames was undeterred. "Fine," he snapped. "The projections had weird teeth, okay?"

"Weird teeth?"

"Yes, see, I told you it wasn't a big—"

"Fuck. I was hoping I'd imagined it."

Arthur blinked, but Eames was already pulling out his phone. "Siri. Call Dean Winchester."

He put it on speaker but didn't say anything in response to Arthur's questioning look. Arthur crossed his arms and waited, although his fingers itched to finish wrapping the job and get out of town.

A gruff American accent answered. "Eames? Is that you?"

Eames was smiling. "It is, mate. How the hell are you?"

"Oh, we manage to keep ourselves in trouble, you know us."

"I do, I do. In fact, if you're looking for some more, I might have found some."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "One sec… Sammy!"

Arthur could hear the change to speakerphone and another voice piped up. "Eames?"

"Too right, Sam, how have you been? Saved the world recently?"

There was a laugh and then, "Not since last night, so it's getting a little boring. Dean says you've got trouble?"

"Oh, not me, mate. But I might have found a vamp, if you guys are in the area and feel like taking out a nest."

"Hell yes," came Dean's voice again. Then he mumbled, "Be nice to do something normal for a change."

" _Vamp_?" Arthur mouthed to Eames, who just shook his head.

"Perfect. Grab your machete and Arthur and I can meet you in St. Louis. You still driving that old hunk of junk around?"

"Hey, you don't talk about her like that."

Eames laughed. "Call me when you get close, yeah?"

"It'll be a few days. Gotta clean some stuff up here first."

"Right, us too. I don't think they're going anywhere though. The vamp is a bit high profile, so I'll try to lay some groundwork before you get here."

Arthur was literally biting his tongue at this point, and glaring at Eames for all he was worth. Eames, for the most part, was managing to ignore him.

"You got it. Good to hear from you, buddy."

"You as well. Sam, you keep him in line."

Sam said, "Always," and laughed.

Arthur waited until Eames disconnected before starting in with questions, but it was a close thing.

"Vamp? Nest? Who the hell is Dean and why does he have a  _machete_?"

Eames gave him a wistful look, like he was regretting having to tell Arthur any of this. "Arthur, maybe you should sit down."

Arthur glared and remained standing, arms crossed. "Fuck you."

Eames' gaze warmed at that and his lips quirked. "If you insist, although I rather thought you were annoyed at me just—"

"Start talking, asshole."

"I've known Dean since we were young. He and his brother moved around a lot, but he was at my first school when I moved to America and we had a lot in common."

"What, like you were both attracted to men?" Arthur couldn't help but snip.

For the first time, Eames didn't look amused. "Like we were nine, we were both the new kid, and our mums were both dead."

Arthur shuffled his feet and put his hands in his pockets. "I'm... shit, Eames, I—"

Eames just shook his head and frowned. "He and Sam have an… interesting family business."

Arthur looked at the floor, finally just letting Eames talk.

"They hunt monsters."

Arthur looked up at that, but Eames wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked more serious than Arthur was sure he'd seen him.

"Real ones."

"Um…"

"Right now," Eames broke in, "you're convincing yourself what you saw on those projections was your imagination. Or maybe the mark's imagination. And I'm going to say it isn't, and you're going to start wondering if you're with someone who is totally mental. So I want you to think, for just one moment, about how much you trust me. And how much I trust you. And how I hope that what I'm going to say doesn't change those things."

Arthur stared at Eames, really stared at him. This was a man he'd known for a long, long time, both in dreamshare and in his bed, and Eames had never asked Arthur to trust him. He'd never needed to. And now he was standing in front of him, breathing through his nose like he did when he was trying to control himself, and his eyes were screaming at Arthur to believe him.

"Okay."

"You're not imagining things."

"Okay."

"You really did see them. They're vampires. Real ones. Vampires are real, and so are other monsters."

"Okay."

"Dean and Sam are hunters who keep them from preying on humans. I know it sounds strange—"

"Eames. I said okay."

Eames broke off, blinking at Arthur.

"I believe you," Arthur said. Then he shrugged. "We break into people's dreams for a living. It sounds more made up than vampires, honestly. At least there are books about those. I don't—"

Before he could finish, Arthur was wrapped up in a hug so tight he could feel his ribs creak. "Oh, okay, fuck, you're—"

"I love you."

Arthur froze, then pushed back to look Eames in the face. Eames didn't let him, just swooped in to kiss Arthur senseless. "I love you. I love you." He chanted it in between kisses, worshipping Arthur's mouth. "God, fuck, I love you."

"Careful, Mr. Eames," Arthur panted as Eames started to pull at his clothes. "You're going to give me a vampire kink."

Eames ignored him. "You are fucking amazing, darling, and I am going to ravish you."

Arthur grinned. "Okay."


	6. Sansa Gets Thunderstruck

Sansa sat on the vanity bench in the room Sam had designated as "hers" and was profoundly grateful that she could identify most of the objects here. Beds, desks, wardrobes, mirrors— those things were the same, and it was comforting. The rest she would deal with as it came. Preferably one at a time, but she knew her own luck better than most.

Right now her mind was racing. She never thought it would be true, but it was so much easier plotting against enemies she knew, in a place she understood.

Dean and Sam had no ulterior motives she could devise, and they'd had plenty of opportunities to hurt her if that's what they'd been after. They'd offered her food as soon as she'd entered their home, and she'd jumped at the chance to accept. Their fare had been odd, and they'd been embarrassed enough Dean had offered to get her something else, but she only needed a bit to complete a ritual they surely didn't follow here. She didn't want to examine why it comforted her, but for as long as she'd been alive, guests who'd broken bread inside a stranger's home were no longer strangers, and definitely not enemies. It hadn't saved her brother Robb, if she were to believe the rumors, but old traditions die hard, and she would take all the help she could get.

But now, in front of "her" mirror, staring at her own hardened face, she tried to tease out ways the Winchesters would be able to better themselves by helping her. And as much as it seemed they were doing so out of the goodness of their hearts, experience told her that just didn't happen. It was possible they were attempting to change their standing or status with this other Stark they were conversing with, the person who held sway over the Tesseract. That made the most sense. However, it didn't require they house, clothe, and feed her as they had done, let alone take her into their "bunker."

She stroked the fabric of the robe Dean had loaned her, which felt soft like a fur but smelled like him.

Her face heated and she pushed the robe away from her nose. For heaven's sake. She was not a child, and she couldn't afford to behave like one. This world was not hers, and therefore fraught with more dangers rather than less. She set her thoughts aside and unbraided her damp hair to comb through the tangles with her fingers.

It all reality, she would probably need to maneuver herself into a position to influence the person who controlled the Tesseract. She tightened her lips as she plotted and combed. She needed to make sure to secure her position here and gain as much information as she could, then find a way to get to where she needed to be, a place called New York.

She was roused from her thoughts by a light knock.

"Enter."

The door opened to reveal Dean, looking tense and annoyed.

"I got this for you," he grunted at her, gruffly shoving a bag toward her and staying firmly on the other side of the threshold. She rose and wrapped the robe around her, Dean's scent wafting into her nostrils before she reached him.

"Thank you, you're very kind," she'd said, accepting it, and then he shoved his hands in the pockets on his trousers and looked uncomfortable. "Would you like to come in?"

"Ah..." he hesitated. His hazel eyes jumped everywhere, including sweeping over her in a way that made her warmer.

"I had a few questions, actually," she interjected. She needed to keep him talking. Had to get closer to him, get information about… about New York. "If you don't mind."

"Sure, sure. I'll just..." He stepped deliberately into the room, leaving the door open. "What can I help with? Lady Sansa."

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling at his attempt at politeness now that Sam wasn't here to see. Quickly she glanced around. "This," she said, and gestured to the box on the sideboard. It was wooden, but with some kind of face and a needle. "Is this something I need to understand?"

Dean looked at her like she was insane. "The  _radio_?! Hell yes, you need to understand that! Here…"

He crossed the room to stretch a rope from the back into a small hole in the wall and inserted it. She jumped at the sound that blared from the small box, her eyes wide, but Dean just muttered and twisted the pieces that moved the needle. She watched everything. Finally, Dean found a place to stop, and music filled the small space.

 

> _And I was shaking at the knees_   
>  _Could I come again, please_   
>  _Yeah them ladies were too kind  
> _ _You've been  
> _ _Thunderstruck_

"Is this magic?" she raised her voice to ask, loathe to interrupt but unable to keep quiet. It was definitely not 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair.'

"No, it's music!"

Sansa frowned at him. "Yes, of course. But what  _is it_?"

Dean grinned. "AC/DC, man, only one of the greatest rock bands of all time."

Sansa hesitated. "And what is a rock band?"

"The only thing worth listening to."

"Oh."

"Actually…" Dean rose. "One second. I'll be right back."

He left and she could hear his quick step down the long hallway. The music played on, and she fidgeted with the bag in her hand, knowing she should be focusing on whatever was inside, but she hesitated. Dean had brought her something. She owned something now. Something real and tangible and in this world. It was this side of overwhelming.

So, she focused on the bag. She ran the slick, thin material between her fingers and did not think about the gift inside. It was cool to the touch, and flexible, like she could carry water in it if she wanted, but it was so flimsy she'd be afraid of it getting ruined. Curious, she pulled on the material to see if it would stretch. Her eyes widened as, to her surprise, it did. But the fabric stayed thinner where she'd stretched it, warped and perverted.

"Oh no."

She tried to pull it back the other way to fix it, but only succeeded in making another warped spot before the material finally split.

"Oh, fuck," she whispered.

She pressed the back of her hand to her lips and, unbelievably, felt the prickle of tears. She locked her jaw and straightened. That was unacceptable. She was a  _queen_. She had made an error, she would simply explain what had happened and attempt to reimburse the loss. With a determined breath, she looked inside the bag.

With a slightly shaky hand, she pulled out of the bottom a small set of sewing needles. Besides the needles were the smallest spools of thread she'd ever seen, in a variety of colors.

Sansa clutched them to her, thankful for something she knew and loved.

Dean filled the doorway once more, a little out of breath from his trip, and she tried to think, to plot, to be strategic about whatever she was showing on her face, but all she knew at that moment was gratitude.

"Dean, I…" She held out the sewing set, precious and a piece of her childhood home. "I don't quite know how to thank you."

Dean shrugged. "Saw it at the gas station when I was getting burritos. Yours is in the kitchen, by the way."

Sansa thanked him automatically, despite the unfamiliar terms and steeled herself.

"I'm afraid I made an error and will need to compensate you in some way so you can replace this receptacle."

She held the bag out to him and he blinked at her as he took it.

"Compensate?"

She gritted her teeth. "I know I do not have money here, but I have a great many skill sets, and I will help you any way I can until the debt is repaid."

Dean looked grim and scratched his jaw. "Hmm. That is quite the offer. What can you do?"

Sansa could hear Arya's laughter in her ear.

"I can… do needlework. And I can do sums. I can play five instruments—a bit. I…" She swallowed and could feel her cheeks burning as she trailed off.

"Hmm," Dean mused in front of her. "Is that it? I mean, you said you were a queen. What do queens…" he gestured, "do?"

Sansa stiffened and looked down her nose at him. "They rule."

Dean grinned at her, wide and boyish, and she was busy being insulted, so she couldn't possibly have noticed the way his whole face changed with that grin, and how his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I mean, so do I, princess, but that's not a skill." He suddenly seemed years younger, and free. It would have been endearing, maybe even beautiful, if it hadn't been at her expense.

Sansa squared her shoulders and set her jaw. "Dean Winchester. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, first of my name, Slayer of White Walkers and Leader of the Freefolk. I command armies and persuade enemies. I command troops, negotiate trade, barter deals and hold the lives of three kingdoms in my hands. I am a  _queen_ , and I'll thank you to remember it."

Dean's smile dimmed and she felt a vindication she hadn't felt since she'd put Smalljon Umber in his place.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, alright." He absentmindedly balled up the bag she'd handed him. She made a sound of protest and he glanced down at it. "Oh. Yeah, they give these away for free. Sam has a whole bag full of them around here somewhere. Here."

He handed her a piece of black clothing and when she unfolded it, it said "AC/DC" in large, orange letters on the front, and on the back, a list of things she didn't understand.

"Dean," she said, unsure about customs here but knowing this felt significant, "I'm not sure I can accept this."

"Hey, that is an  _authentic, vintage_  AC/DC shirt, lady. So that is obviously a  _loan._ "

Her eyes jerked to his and she flushed. "Oh."

"Yeah. I'm gonna need that back."

"Yes, of course." She dropped her head in embarrassment. "My apologies."

"Yeah. Christ," he said, pushing a hand to his heart. "Give me a frigging heart attack. Okay, so just put that on over your other stuff and then you don't have to wear the robe. Unless you want to. And then I called someone to come and take you to a store and buy you, you know, your… stuff."

"Oh. Alright."

"She's a friend."

Sansa raised her eyebrows. "I see."

"Not that kind of friend," Dean clarified.

Sansa made a "none of my concern" gesture.

Dean huffed an annoyed sound through his nose and Sansa swallowed a smile.

"Thank you for the loan. And the needles."

He nodded and closed the door on his way out.

When she found her way to the kitchen, Sam was huddled over the metal book he called a "laptop", although she'd never seen it on his lap.

"Oh, hi," he said, closing it quickly. He smiled.

"Hmm," Sansa hummed. "Sam, have I ever told you that you remind me of my brother?"

"How's that?" said Dean from behind her. "Too tall, eats a lot of salad, and tells corny jokes?"

Sansa turned to see him placing some food on a plate and sliding it over to her. She gave a wry smile. "None of those things, actually."

"Huh." Dean slid a fork toward her. "Then you must mean he's awkward, can't keep a girlfriend, and refuses to cut his hair."

"Dude!" Sam yelled.

Sansa grinned for real now, picturing Jon's face if he were to hear this. "Actually, yes, Jon is all of those things. But it is not what I was referring to."

She cut into the food and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It wasn't as bad as it smelled, honestly. She looked up to see the brothers exchanging glares, an ode to a lifetime of good-natured ribbing, love, and family. Her heart sank a bit because that reminded her of her brother too.

"I meant," she said, interrupting them, "that he wasn't very good at hiding things from me either."

Now Dean and Sam exchanged different looks.

"What were you doing? Before I came in?" She took another bite.

"Uh. Nothing important. Just research."

"Mmm. What were you researching?"

Sam gave Dean a pointed glance and gestured to her with his head. Dean set down a bottle of ale next to her and sighed. She watched him as she took a drink.

"We are going on a hunting trip. Nat's coming, that's the friend, and she's going to watch over you. We'll be—"

"I want to come with you," Sansa said immediately. She could not secure any sort of standing or information if they were not available, or if they perished.

"No," Sam said, "Lady Sansa, forgive me, but that's not a great idea."

"Yeah, no shit." Dean glanced at her quickly but frowned. "Sorry, but there's not going to be needlework on this trip."

Sansa smiled sadly and thought of Arya and Needle, and how much she'd learned since they were girls together at Winterfell. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said to herself. To Dean, she said, "I'm coming with you. If I die, it's one less thing you have to worry about."

The brothers had one more silent conversation, Sam's lips in a thin line and Dean rolling his eyes. "Fine," Dean said, throwing up his hands. "Your funeral."

Dean's phone rang.

"Nat?" he answered on speakerphone. "What's up?"

"Dean?" her husky voice crackled. "Why is there a really, really, reallyreallyreally big giant dog? Out here? Sniffing me?"


	7. Nat's Love Language

The wolf had been a shock, sure. But the woman… well, Nat had tried to keep herself expectation-free but it would seem she had failed. Sam and Dean tended to round up strays as friends, which was probably why they'd collected her as well. But Sansa, or "Lady Sansa" as she'd introduced herself, was not a stray. She looked down her nose at Nat, sizing her up, and Nat raised an eyebrow, waiting for her verdict with amusement.

If Sansa ever passed judgment, she kept it to herself, and Nat could respect that. Playing it close to the vest until she got her feet under her. Smart.

"It's lovely to meet you, Ms. Romanov," Sansa said coolly.

"Likewise," Nat said, even and unafraid, and they regarded each other. Sam and Dean exchanged nervous looks but Nat couldn't be bothered with them. She had a new puzzle to play with.

Sansa was wearing a shirt that was clearly Dean's, and Nat noticed how carefully Dean avoided looking at her as they gathered around the large table with beers at 10:00 in the morning. Nat declined, and Dean left it cooling by her elbow anyway.

Sansa, she noticed though, looked at Dean. Long, curious looks when no one was watching. Dean would point at something or move something, and Sansa watched his hands. Once, without realizing it, she touched the shirt she wore with the same motion. Nat narrowed her eyes.

When they'd made the appropriate small talk, Nat steered Sansa outside and toward her rental car. "So," Nat said as she settled into the driver's seat and helped Sansa with her seatbelt. "How are you feeling about all of this?"

Sansa glanced at her before she let a thin smile spread over her face. "Which part?"

Nat smiled back. "Well, I'm guessing those boys were not all that helpful in explaining anything, and you don't look completely comfortable in those clothes, although you look just fine. So I'm assuming you're not feeling completely comfortable about everything else."

Sansa looked a little taken aback, and Nat wondered if that was the right move. She'd hoped to break down a few walls, but she could see them being built faster than she could talk.

Nat shrugged it away and pulled onto the road. "But I'm sure that will pass. Come on, we'll get you some clothes. I'm sure everything else will feel better after that. And if you have any questions, just…" Nat smiled again, "let me know."

Sansa nodded solemnly. "Thank you, I will."

They drove to the city in relative silence, until Nat decided she owed it to Dean to make an effort. "So." She waited until she had the other woman's attention before continuing. "I hear you're going hunting with the boys."

Sansa paused as if agreeing with something she already knew to be true would show her hand. Finally, she nodded. "Yes, they've agreed to let me attend."

"Yes, I know. Ever killed a person before?"

She said it lightly, without judgment, but Sansa stiffened with a pained look, haunted and far away. She looked away, staring woodenly out the window. "I don't see why that should matter."

Nat felt her amusement bubble up again. "Oh, you are going to fit right in around here," she muttered to herself. Sansa didn't reply.

They went to a lingerie store first so Sansa would have something to wear while she tried on clothes. "Alright, your highness, we're going to get underwear first. There's going to be a woman to help you, she'll measure you, and to do that she'll have to touch you. She won't mean anything by it, but if you have questions you can ask."

It was Sansa's turn to look almost amused. "I had ladies to help me dress. I understand how it works."

Nat tried not to roll her eyes. "Well, she's not going to help you dress, she's just going to help you find the right size. The clothes are pre-made, so they find the one that should fit you and then you buy it."

"I see."

It wouldn't do to get annoyed, Nat told herself. "I just don't want you to be surprised by anything."

"I believe you," Sansa replied.

Nat did roll her eyes that time. But she pasted on a big smile and greeted a gray-haired woman who no doubt had three grandchildren and fantastic sales. "Hello," she said, "my friend here is Amish and she's doing one of those rites of passage where you go out into the real world."

The woman looked delighted. "Oh, yes! I saw a program about that! Rumspringa, isn't it? And how are you finding the world, my dear?"

Sansa blinked, her mouth a pink 'o'. "I… it is very loud."

The woman laughed and clapped her hands delightedly. "Well yes, I'm sure it is! And how can we help you today?"

"Everything," Nat said with a smile. "She needs everything. Functional, fashionable, nighttime, just everything."

And the lovely grandmother's eyes lit up green with dollar signs as she tsked, and clucked, and whisked Sansa away to a dressing room, and Nat texted Clint while she kept the exits in view and the corners cleared.

_Have you talked to Bruce?_

There was a delay, and then,  _Mdrio kart,1 sec_

_Mario Kart WITH BRUCE OR WITHOUT?_  Nat texted back.

There was no reply, and Nat looked up the next store while she waited.

_Well he fucking beat me now because i had to check ur text i hope ur happy._

_Ecstatic. Now you have time to talk._

_1 mor kart_

Nat shook her head because that's exactly what she expected, and therefore exactly what she should have been trying to avoid, but she'd learned long ago that Clint didn't manipulate her, so she didn't manipulate him. See? She did too have a love language.

When Sansa finally exited with a pile of lace and satin she couldn't have picked out herself, and a flannel nightgown she definitely did, Sansa pulled out the card Dean had given her. Dean would get all mumbly if he knew what his money was buying right now. It might almost be worth the look on his face to tell him. Actually, she thought, watching the items be packaged up, Dean might not survive that knowledge.

At the next store, Nat ignored Sansa and grabbed outfits seemingly at random, shoved them at Sansa, and walked her to the fitting rooms. "Come out when you've got both a top and a bottom."

Trial and error was Nat's least favorite way of doing anything, but with this, there was little choice. But there were a few times when it was the fastest, and this was one of them.

The cream-colored sweater was beautiful on Sansa, oversized enough to highlight her collarbones and pale enough to accentuate her skin untouched by the sun. Nat raised her eyebrows despite herself.

"I…" Sansa started, apologetically.

"Yes, I agree," Nat said, regretfully. "You should definitely get the jeans but you need something cooler and something which shows less skin at the same time. Too bad though. You look lovely."

She meant it, and Sansa looked surprised. Then she caught sight of herself in the large mirror in the corner. Nat watched her blink at herself, then at a random woman returning her unwanted items to a salesperson. Then Nat herself.

"Alright," Sansa said in the mirror. "Thank you."

It went better after that, and while Sansa tended toward not showing any skin, she seemed to appreciate clothes that showed off her figure. She left the store in a pair of high waisted jeans which could cause traffic jams and a plain white button-down which looked anything but. Dean was a dead man.

"Sansa," Nat said slowly as they piled the bags in the car and Sansa tried to figure out the seatbelt by herself. "I'm not going to let you do this."

Sansa paused with her hand on the buckle, her brow furrowed.

"You have to go home as soon as possible," Nat told her, keeping eye contact and letting a little bit of steel sneak into her voice. "You cannot stay here."

"I have no intention of staying here," Sansa said, frowning. She buckled the belt with more force than necessary.

"Good," Nat said, and she didn't move. "Because the longer you stay, the harder it will be for Dean to let you go. And he has lost too many women in his life for me to stand by while he loses one more."

Sansa looked angry, but Nat put a hand on her arm and didn't pull away when Sansa's eyes flared.

"Don't go on that hunt tomorrow," Nat said. "You stay away from him, keep your head down, and you get the hell out. Fast." She pulled back and put her hands on the wheel. "Or you stay and try to be worthy. Your choice."

They rode back in silence.


	8. Dean Has Selective Observation Powers

"Finally," Dean breathed into the blessed silence of the bunker. "Women." He threw his hands up dismissively.

"Oh, like I believe that," Sam laughed from behind his computer.

"What?"

Sam looked at him. "Nothing. It's just you like having them here. I know you do."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever, man, look let's just get ready for this nest, pack our stuff, and get gone before they get back."

Sam gaped at him. "Are you serious? You're gonna leave Sansa here after you said she could come with us?"

Dean stared at his idiot brother. "Of course I'm serious, Sam. It's me. When am I not serious?"

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "Right. Look, for the record? I am not getting in the middle of this. Okay? When she's all pissed off because she got left behind, I am not going to talk to her and try to explain your…" he gestured to Dean, "you-ness."

Dean scoffed. "Come on. My me-ness? I'm awesome, okay? And I'll be a lot more awesome if we don't have to babysit Princess Peach while we're trying to hunt some frigging vamps. Alright?"

Sam gave a thin smile and closed his laptop. "Fine."

"Good."

…

They almost made it. Dean was packed and reorganizing the trunk while he waited for Sam when Nat parked behind him. Dean gritted his teeth. Sam did this on purpose, he just knew it. He threw the hand ax back in the trunk and shut it with a thud.

"No diamonds, high rise jeans," Nat threw over her shoulder as she headed into the bunker. Sansa smiled at him hesitantly, her hands full of shopping bags.

"Well. Looks like Amer Daher's black card served you well," he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the car. He indicated the bags with a nod of his head at her blank look.

"Oh," Sansa said, holding them up, "yes. At the risk of sounding simple, everything is very different here."

"That's probably what I'd say if I were there. But you'll catch on."

She smiled a little brighter and nodded, then headed in the bunker. He forced his eyes to focus on the white Keds she was wearing and nothing else and told himself he didn't care what she wore. He was going to miss the way she looked in his sweats though. Sam held the door for her on her way in and she thanked him.

He sidled up to Dean, duffle bag in hand. "We ready to go?"

Dean glared and then rolled his eyes, storming his way back inside without a word.

Sansa and Nat were making sandwiches when he glared into the kitchen, and he would have walked past but those sandwiches looked really good and they were making a bunch, so.

"So," Sansa said, licking a smear of mayo off her thumb, which was not hot, "when are we leaving?"

"Leaving?" Nat asked. "My goodness, are you going too, my lady?"

"Mmm," Sansa hummed at her wide eyes, a tight smile on her face. "I apologize, but I gave my word to Dean and Sam that I would go 'hunting' with them."

Her touchy tone wasn't directed at him, but Dean was annoyed anyway. "Have you ever been hunting, princess?"

Her face told him he'd struck a nerve, but she put her sandwich down and squared her shoulders. "Where I'm from, a hunting trip is something that can get you killed. Even if you are royalty. So no, I don't often attend, but I have gone pigeon hunting. And I can take orders."

Dean licked his lips and tried not to laugh. He didn't try that hard though. " _Pigeon_  hunting? What the hell for?"

She stiffened further and Dean knew he should back off because pissing off women was something you did only if you had a really good reason, but he couldn't help himself. Nat watched like it was a tennis match, munching on her sandwich.

"Pigeons are pests. They bother the ravens, they eat all the grain, and they bring their friends. They also take flight at the twang of a crossbow, so they're not as easy to hit as you might think."

"Yeah, well a crossbow ain't gonna take down a full-grown vamp, now is it?" Dean snapped. Pigeons, for crap's sake.

"Wait, vamps?" Nat straightened. "I thought you closed all the portals. Where did vampires come from?"

"Yeah, well, news flash for you. I had a job before I met you."

Dean snatched the sandwich off the counter and stormed to his room. Women.

When he emerged an hour later, bored of staring at the walls of his room and running out of things to think about that didn't involve dead bodies, Sam was explaining plastic to Sansa and Nat was gone.

"But what  _is_  plastic?" Sansa asked, holding a TV remote in one hand and a sack from the gas station in the other and studying them like they contained mysteries of the universe.

"Something rich women aspire to be," Dean quipped, smiling at his own joke. Sam just looked annoyed and Sansa even more confused.

"It's," Sam sighed through his nose at Dean, "it's a man-made material that comes from bonding different types of chemicals together."

"Different what?"

"Okay," Dean interrupted, "how about we talk about something useful." He ignored Sam's relief that he tried to cover up with more annoyance. "You said you can use a crossbow. How are you with a knife? Have you ever shot a gun before?"

"What is a 'gun'?"

"Jesus," Dean breathed.

Sansa's face was bordering on furious, and damn if she wasn't beautiful like that. Her cheeks flushed and her lips thinned, and she held her teeth together when she talked.

"I can skin a rabbit and build a fire. I can walk for miles. In heels. I can take down white walkers, and wights, and I can command armies by raising my hand. Now explain what a gun is, and I'm sure I can do that too."

"Dean," Sam interrupted, standing, "we don't need her to be able to shoot. Just take her to the training room and let her practice on a dummy, and," he dropped his voice, "stop being an ass."

"If you hadn't taken half an hour to fix your damn hair, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Dean grumbled, but Sam just stared at him, refusing to take the bait. "Fine," Dean said, throwing up his hands. "Let's go practice on a dummy, Pigeon Hunter." He stalked away, muttering, "Seems like we're not going to run out of those any time soon."

Sansa hurried to keep up with him as he took her to the stairs and down to the room the Men of Letters had designated for training new recruits. He searched for the light switch and wrinkled his nose at the smell of dust burning off the light bulbs when he flipped them on.

"Well," he said, looking around the sad space, "guess we'll start at square one." The practice dummy in the middle, complete with obligatory red bullseye, looked a little limp from years of waiting to be used. Dean was pretty sure they'd opened the door labeled "practice room" when they first moved in, and then rolled their eyes and closed it again, and that had been the last time anyone had set foot in here.

There were some basic weapons on the wall, and a decent knife which he stuck in his belt, before he turned to Sansa. "Let's go with the machete. It's usually a little easier to get a clean hit."

He handed it to her and steered her toward the dummy. "Now, the only way to kill a vamp is to take its head off, so you've got to make sure you get through the spine on the first swing. Otherwise it'll be your neck you need to worry about."

She adjusted her grip on the machete and nodded, her face determined. Dean tried not to sigh as he turned the machete over in her grip so the blade faced out.

"A hit lower on the neck is going to take more upper body strength to get through muscles," he demonstrated, moving his hand like a blade toward the dummy. "But too high and you risk hitting them in the jaw, which isn't going to do much to them and will make a mess of your shoulder. This vamp right here," he said, smacking a cloud of dust off the shoulder of the mannequin, "has a steel rod for a spine, so there should be a nice, bright  _clang_  if you hit it right. Okay?"

She nodded, her eyes focused.

"Alright, then. Let freedom ring."

He stepped back and watched Sansa take a deep breath, her eyes locked on the spot she was aiming for. She placed two hands on the machete, her first mistake, and swung for all she was worth, a soft grunt escaping when the blade landed.

Dean took a breath and focused on trying to be nice. He could hear Sam's annoyed, "don't be an ass," but Jesus, it was like she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

"Okay, so, first of all, you'll want to keep your eyes open the whole time."

She nodded quickly, blinking.

"Second, machetes are better one-handed, so your stance is wrong, and your angle…" he gestured to the weapon, buried barely a quarter inch into the dummy's shoulder, "is a little off."

"Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I'd noticed."

She looked like she was regretting coming in here and all and Dean gritted his teeth at the guilt rolling around in his chest. If this were him, someplace new, not knowing shit from Shinola, he'd be doing the same thing she was. Can't fault her for wanting this. He patted her shoulder and looked her in the eye.

"Let's try a backhand this time."

Her shoulders softened and she nodded, her mouth thinning in determination.

He pulled the machete out and handed it back, helping her readjust her grip. He turned toward the movement in his peripheral vision and saw Sam walking away from the door. Thanks for the help, bitch. He glared after him.

"Like this?" Sansa asked, hesitantly, and he returned his attention to her.

"Uh, not…" he raised her arm about an inch, and then realized the problem. She wasn't short, but she was shorter than him. He stepped behind her. "Okay, try this." He reached around her, holding the machete in her hand. He changed the angle once more, so the backhand slice would hit mid-neck. "See? You should start here," he said, shifting his feet and placing one hand on her hip to have her mimic him, "so the strongest part of your swing is… here."

She didn't say anything, but she adjusted her hips so her feet were lined up right. He ignored how they brushed the front of his jeans. This wasn't the time.

"Good," he said, then cleared his throat. His voice had gotten stupidly low and now he sounded like a porn star. Jesus, Winchester, focus.

"Okay, so, like that," he said, backing up. "Try again."

She took a deep breath and swung again.

He grunted. "Better." It was still too shallow, but her aim was on target. "Let's do the forward swing again. This time, try to hit it with the heaviest part of the blade, here, and swing like it's going to go all the way through."

She nodded, and he sidled up behind her again, taking in that her hair smelled like his shampoo and her arm was warm where the short-sleeved shirt didn't cover it, adjusted her aim, and then moved away again quickly.

"Okay," he instructed. "Again."

They practiced, and practiced, but each swing, while more on the mark, was getting shallower. She sighed.

"My apologies, Dean," Sansa said, shaking out her arm. "My sister would be mortified if she could see how poorly this is going." She hung her head ruefully, and Dean let her catch her breath. "I would like to keep trying, please. This is actually something I have experience in. It's unfortunate it doesn't translate."

"You have experience killing vamps?"

"No," she said, her smile small but with a hint of mischief. And that was a dangerous combo when it came to women. "I have experience with beheadings."

Dean blinked at her. "You… ?"

She looked at the weapon in her hands demurely. "My father always said if you were going to pass the sentence, you should be prepared to swing the ax yourself."

Dean blinked once more, then closed his mouth. He returned to the wall of weapons and took down the hand ax mounted there. When he handed it to her with a gruff, "Alright, Pigeon Hunter. Prove it," she took it with a smirk.

This time he was barely able to move out of the way before she swung the ax, two-handed, into the side of the dummy's head. It clipped the top of the pole and embedded itself three-quarters of the way through its skull, and Dean swallowed.

"Um." He huffed a laugh. "Yeah, that'd do it."

"I think…" Sansa started, hesitant, "I think I'd do better with a downward swing." She demonstrated, miming the ax in her hand and a vamp at her feet.

"Okay," Dean allowed, thinking, "but you'd have to get them to their knees, at least, and getting a—"

Sansa turned on her heel, spun until she was behind him, and kicked him in the back of the knee. When he staggered, she hit him in the head with the heel of her hand. Before he could blink, his knees were hitting the worn padded floor. He looked up at her.

Sansa smirked, her flushed face lording over him. "I know how to bring a man to his knees."

Christ. She is all kinds of dangerous. "Yeah, I bet," Dean said, clearing his throat. "Okay, uh, let's work with that."

They worked on take-downs for the rest of the afternoon, and Dean was man enough to admit that Sam would have been better at this, but not man enough to call him in and switch teachers. He didn't mind pinning her to the mat, as both of their competitive streaks came out to play. Hey, she was feisty, and he could keep it professional while still enjoying the finer things in life. No problem. But then she pulled a move he hadn't taught her.

Dean came at her from behind, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and aiming his face for her neck. She was  _supposed_  to try to flip him over her shoulder. He  _told_  her to lean forward, use his weight against him, land him on his back. What she did instead was drop like she was made of concrete, land on her knees, and spin out before he could blink. Then she grabbed the inside of his thigh, and okay, he might have gotten a little distracted at that, yanked him off balance, and tackled him.

When she was straddling him, knees pressing into his shoulders, a victorious grin on her face and pieces of her hair clinging to her cheeks, he began to feel…a little less professional.

"Having fun?"

Sam's voice was an ice cold bucket of water and Dean practically threw Sansa off of him.

"It's fine," Dean said, standing and moving to put the weapons they'd been using back.

"I won that one," Sansa told Sam proudly and Sam smiled.

"Did you use a throw?" he asked. "I can show you a few—"

"Nah, she's good, actually," Dean said, securing the knife through his belt once again. "I'm going to call Eames. We can be there late tomorrow."

Sam gave him an odd look but nodded and Dean strode past them, eager to get some air. And maybe some privacy. Hell, if alcohol wasn't going to take the edge off, maybe 20 minutes with his laptop and his hand would do the trick. Or, if he was being honest, ten minutes with his imagination and his hand would do the trick. Or, okay, fine. Five.

"So," came Sansa's cheerful lilt from behind him. "Are we taking your horseless carriage again?"

God save him. She was going to kill him. He ground his teeth.

"It's not a carriage, it's an Impala. And it's not horseless. They're just under the hood."

She looked surprised, but he escaped to his room and closed the door before she could say anything else.


	9. Arthur Doles Out Some Punches

Arthur tabbed through his spreadsheet as Eames hung up the phone. "They're still coming?"

Eames nodded. "As promised. They'll be here tomorrow evening. They're getting rooms at the," he shuddered, "Budget Inn."

Arthur looked over at him. "Why!?"

Eames spread his hands in a "who knows" gesture, then returned to his mobile. "I told them to come over when they get here, but maybe they'll want to, I don't know, appreciate the amenity or something first."

Arthur snorted. "If it has one at all. Okay, look at this." He forwarded the spreadsheet to Eames and when he heard the buzz saying it had been received, spun his chair around to sit next to him. "I've compiled a few of the theories I've read, so I want you to tell me what you know so I can include it."

Eames looked at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation. "Darling. You know you don't have to do this, right? They're professionals."

Arthur scowled. "Yeah? Well, so am I. And this is my job."

Now Eames was smiling.

"What?" Arthur snapped, a little stung that Eames was making fun of him.

"Nothing. I just realized: Sam is going to love you." Then he scowled. "So you stay away from him, you got it?"

"Or what? You're going to toss me over your shoulder and carry me back to your cave?"

Eames leered at him. "Yes, as a matter of fact." He turned his face into Arthur's neck and started nibbling up his throat. "And then I'm going to lay you down in said cave, strip you out of your three-piece suit made of pelts, and fuck you six ways to Sunday." He bit him on the Adam's apple and Arthur swallowed hard. "Loudly," Eames clarified, gentling the bite with a lick. "So the neighboring caves can hear you."

"Hear me?" Arthur asked, a little breathier than before. "You're the loud one, you fucking drama queen."

"Drama…?!" Eames acted shocked and stood so he could throw Arthur over his shoulder. "Now you're gonna get it."

"You rip my pelts, you're gonna get it," Arthur said, his face hanging by the small of Eames' back. He was pretty sure Eames could hear his smile though.

…

The sound of the motor when Dean and Sam pulled up was obscene and, Arthur allowed, a little bit sexy. When two of the tallest men he'd ever met climbed out of the black Chevy, he had to admit, it suited them.

"Eames? You limey bastard, how are you?"

The shorter of the two came around to hug Eames with a good-natured slap on the back, and Eames returned it. "I'm getting by, Dean, as usual. How are you? Sam?" He extended a hearty handshake to the larger of the two, who grinned and shook it back.

He gestured to Arthur and put a hand on the small of his back, light, but possessive. Arthur was doing much better at not resenting the hell out of that.

"This is Arthur."

They exchanged another round of handshakes, and Arthur didn't miss the calluses on their hands or the way they assessed him at the same time, even though no one failed to smile.

"And this is Lady Sansa," Sam said, turning to reveal the red-haired slip of a girl who had apparently exited the car behind Sam. "She's… not from around here."

" _Lady_  Sansa?" Eames said, eyebrows raised, and went to kiss her hand. "My goodness, my Lady, but you are enchanting. I didn't know these idiots were bringing along the gentry."

She didn't simper over Eames' charm the way a lot of women did. She looked almost contented. "Royalty, actually," was all she said, and Eames' eyebrows rose.

"You don't say," he murmured over her knuckles. "And English royalty at that. Well, Lady Sansa," he said, rising and tucking her arm into his, "I absolutely insist that these heathens allow us to take you to a decent dinner if they're going to force you into that rat trap you call a hotel."

"Oh, no, Mr. Eames, there are no rats. It's very modern."

It was Arthur's turn to raise his eyebrows.

Eames just smiled at her, his Englishness dialed up to 11, and he led the way to the hotel's restaurant, cooing in her ear the whole way.

Arthur found himself walking next to Dean, who carried a duffle bag and an annoyed look like he'd been born with both. "What time is sundown?" he asked Arthur, who took a second to be pleased with himself that he'd looked it up for the next week and it was part of his spreadsheet. Take that, Eames.

"In an hour and," he checked his watch, "five minutes. Not enough time to get there with this kind of traffic. Besides, an early morning hit will be better for the cover story Eames has built."

"Cover story?"

Arthur turned to look at Sam. "Yes. The head vampire is a congressman. Didn't he tell you?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look and then Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Well, whatever, just point us in the right direction and we'll take care of the rest."

Arthur frowned but nodded. He hadn't listened to CO's scream at him for several years to be brushed aside during any kind of mission, but they were the professionals, as Eames had said.

"Do you want to store that in our room?" Arthur asked Dean, indicating the bag, but Dean just looked at him.

"I'm good. What kind of food is this place anyway?"

"Uh, French, I think."

Dean grunted. "They got burgers?"

"I'm sure they do," Arthur finally agreed. And then, because he couldn't help it and because Eames wasn't around to hear it, he added, "I think the kid's menu has chicken fingers too."

Sam snorted behind him, and Arthur allowed himself a small smile.

Dean looked between the two of them. "Yeah, whatever. Enjoy your salad." Then he stomped away after Eames and Sansa.

Arthur frowned again, unsure who Dean was addressing.

"Don't worry about him," Sam said, catching up to Arthur in one stride of his abnormally long legs. "He's just mad because someone besides him is flirting with Lady Sansa."

Arthur snorted. "Eames doesn't mean anything by it."

Sam tilted his head. "How do you know?"

Arthur gave Sam a quick once over, a surprisingly poor judge if he was someone Arthur was supposed to stay away from. "Because Eames knows I'd kill him if he did."

Sam looked a little taken aback but didn't say anything and Arthur wondered if he hadn't just committed his own version of 'hand on the small of his back.' He mentally shook himself and tried to focus on the task at hand. As Eames had pointed out, multiple times that morning, the job hadn't  _technically_ started yet, but that didn't mean he couldn't be prepared.

"Sam, I was hoping you could help me with something. I've been trying to compile a vampire database, and I was thinking after dinner, if you've got some time, you might take a look at the research spreadsheet I put together?"

Sam's eyes got wide and his steps faltered a bit, but he stammered out, "Yeah, sure, no problem. You've been researching vamps?"

He looked like a kid, almost vibrating with excitement. "Well, yes," Arthur said, "it's what I do. I've been logging sources, but a lot of the intel I've been able to get my hands on seems conflicting. And I know you guys don't need the help or anything, but I just thought—"

"No, please!" Sam interrupted. "It's great! I mean, I think it's great you're putting all that work into it. We've been doing this for a long time, but we haven't really had time to sit down and really add to our dad's journal or catalog any of the stuff we've learned."

"Well, I've only looked online and browsed the library here in St. Louis, so I'm sure you've got more than I have. So I'll take whatever you've got since it's probably more accurate anyway. Hey," Arthur added, "that reminds me: have you ever heard of an author named Chuck Shurley?"

Sam grimaced and took a breath.

"Arthur!" Eames called. "Over here, yeah?"

Sam flashed him a quick, apologetic smile and they headed toward the table where the other three were already sitting.

Eames was holding out a chair for him and Arthur glared for all he was worth until Eames sat in it himself. Arthur took the chair next to Sansa instead, and while Eames and Dean discussed what consisted of "decent" food, Arthur looked over at her. She seemed calm and composed, but Arthur noticed her throat worked as she swallowed, over and over.

"You okay?" he asked, trying not to sound condescending. He was working on it.

She gave him a tight smile. "Fine, thank you."

"Any questions on the menu? I speak a little French, so I might be able to tell you what some of the things are."

Her face brightened and she gave him a nod, angling the menu so he could read what she was pointing to.

He murmured explanations to her until the waitress came to take their orders, and she rattled off what she wanted like she'd been doing it for a thousand years. He noticed her correct French pronunciations and was impressed despite himself.

When the waitress left and Sam, Dean, and Eames were laughing about some story from their childhood, he looked at her cool facade and recognized a kindred spirit. "You have a good ear for languages," he noted.

She smiled ruefully. "I've been practicing Valerian and Dothraki, not that it's doing me much good here. Although, to be honest, I mostly only know the curse words in Dothraki."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, in my experience, that'll get you halfway to where you need to be in most places anyway."

Her smile was soft and a bit sad, but she drew herself up and asked, "What is it you do, Mr. Arthur?"

"Please, just Arthur," he said. "And I'm a point man. Eames and I are in dreamshare," he explained at her curious look. "We use a device to share dreams. It's my responsibility to make sure the jobs go off without a hitch."

She blinked and raised her eyebrows. "That sounds beautiful."

Arthur grinned at her, his dimples probably showing, but he couldn't help it. "Well, it can be. But mostly we use it to sneak into people's heads and steal secrets so we can sell them."

Her eyebrows dropped. "Ah. Of course."

He chuckled again, unable to help it. "It's okay. I wish it were beautiful all the time, but the whole thing is underground, so the technology is mainly used for nefarious purposes, I'm afraid." He shrugged. "We make a living. And we're damn good at it."

Sansa sat back and looked at him curiously. "Are you a knight, Arthur?"

Arthur opened his mouth and then closed it again. "A knight?" he asked, not sure he heard correctly.

"Yes. Dean and Sam," she said, indicating them with a nod of her head, "are warriors but not knights. No military background that I can see, a general disregard for the chain of command, that sort of thing. Your Eames is harder to tell," she mused, and Arthur ducked his head, liking the sound of 'his Eames'.

"But you," she said, looking at him again, "you are different."

The waitress interrupted them with their plates and extra napkins and a stiff smile at Dean's request for ketchup, and when she was gone, Arthur saw Dean check on Sansa with his eyes. She gave him an imperceptible nod in reply and Dean went back to pretending to ignore her. Arthur watched her tuck her napkin on her lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I was in the military," Arthur told her. "But when you say 'knight', I think of something different than what you probably mean."

"How so?"

Arthur shrugged. "Fairy tales have knights, and they're usually doing heroic things: saving princesses, slaying dragons with a sword before they ride off on their horse. That kind of thing."

Sansa beamed at him. "Just so, Arthur. They are not different words."

Arthur laughed. "Then in that case, no. I'm definitely not a knight. Besides, as I understand it, in order to be a knight, you have to be dubbed one by the king or queen."

"Do you aspire to be one?" she asked, curious. "You could be Ser Arthur of St. Louis."

Arthur didn't want her to feel like she was being laughed at because she was being kind to him, but god, if this shit wasn't surreal.

"Ah, no, it's never been one of my life goals, actually. And I'm not from here anyway."

"Oh?" she asked, loading her fork. "Where are you from?"

"New York."

Sansa paused mid-bite and looked at him, and the red flags in his head started waving. She finished her mouthful of food and smiled at him, smooth as silk. "Is that so? I've never had the pleasure. Do you go home often?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow because he could smell an intel gathering, but he talked about New York for a while as they ate. Finally, he asked her, "So, where are you from?"

She licked her lips and looked around the table. "Dean? Where are we telling people I'm from?"

Conversation paused as everyone looked at Dean, his mouth stuffed full. "London?" he managed around the food, more question than answer.

She looked at Arthur, lips twitching. "London."

Arthur glanced at Eames, who was already raising an eyebrow. "You do know I know a thing or two about London, don't you, mate?"

Dean swallowed forcefully. "Ah, yeah. I thought you could help fill in some of the details for her." He smiled sheepishly, and Eames looked at him, bemused.

"Not going to tell us, then?"

Dean sobered. "Look, she's not going to be here that long. It's a long damn story, and if we're hunting tomorrow, we could use the extra time tonight to get ready. So I say, why don't we all just finish our—"

"Get ready?" Eames asked before Arthur could. These guys were professionals, weren't they?

The question hung in the air as Dean and Sam had a conversation without words, and Arthur kept an eye on Sansa, who hadn't yet missed a thing.

"Yeah, well, we seem to have a monkey on our backs for this one." He half-glared at Sansa as he threw his napkin on the table.

"Ah!" said Eames. "A tourist! We know a thing or two about those, don't we, Arthur?"

Arthur hummed through a frown, and his fingers twitched for his totem, but he curled them into his thigh instead. Sansa watched him.

"Anything we can do to help?" Eames directed the question at Dean, who raised his eyebrows and looked to Sam.

Sam smiled apologetically at both of them. "We could probably use all the help we can get. If you don't know how big the nest is, the more the merrier. Have you ever hunted vamps before?"

Arthur and Eames both answered no, but Arthur continued, "but you don't have to worry about us. We can take care of ourselves. We've fought off more than one bloodsucker in our time, even if they weren't vampires."

Eames quirked a grin at him and knew he was referring to Cairo, which they didn't talk about, and Arthur tipped his head to indicate Sansa.

"And Lady Sansa?"

She drew herself up in her chair and managed to look down her nose at all of them, but she stayed quiet.

Dean's voice was gruff when he said, "She could use some looking after."

"But I could help," Sansa interjected. "I will stay in the back if you'd prefer."

Dean didn't say anything, just looked at Sam again, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Arthur is well-trained," Eames offered. "He could maybe keep an eye on her and make sure she stays safe." Arthur was too overqualified to act humble. He just looked to Dean and Sam.

Dean's jaw was clenched and Sam wasn't making eye contact, and finally, Dean said, "Well, we'd be a lot more efficient if we weren't having to keep track of her."

He looked at Arthur when he said it, and Arthur took it for the compliment it was. He nodded gravely and planned to rub Eames' nose in it the second they were back in their hotel room.

Sansa looked angry at being 'looked after,' but as far as Arthur could tell, these two weren't messing around. This was serious business, and if she wasn't ready, Arthur himself would prefer she wasn't coming. He couldn't imagine how they felt.

"There's a gym at the hotel," Arthur said, but this time he directed it to Sansa. "If you'd like to practice here, I'd be happy to show you a few defensive moves that you can use to take down bigger and stronger opponents."

She smiled at him, calmer. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Dean didn't look like he'd like that very much, but Eames stepped in, all smarm and charm. "Excellent! And we can drop you back off safe and sound in time for bed. Now, where's that bloody woman with our check?"

Eames picked up the tab and Arthur shook hands with the Winchesters. "Sam, I'll send you that spreadsheet."

"Hey, thanks, I really appreciate it."

Arthur blinked up at him. "You're… welcome. Eames, did you hear that?"

"What was that, pet?" he said, re-pocketing his wallet.

"Sam just thanked me for the research I did. I didn't know people did that."

Sam barked a laugh. "It's a rarity for me, too."

"Sam, you bloody prat," Eames grinned at him, "one day in town and already showing me up. Get out of here, would you?"

They laughed together as they walked the Winchesters to their car, Arthur giving it an appreciative once-over, and Dean giving him a look of approval before he got in and gunned the engine.

"Are you okay with this?" Arthur asked Sansa under cover of the roar.

She looked amused. "Yes, thank you." She watched as the Impala drove away. "I asked to come along," she said. "They don't like it, but they agreed. So I appreciate your offer. I would like to earn my keep, and I'm not doing a very good job of it, I'm afraid."

Arthur eyed her shrewdly, noting the way she held herself so carefully in check, how she noticed everything, and the determination in her eyes. "I don't think it'll be long," he said, mostly to himself, but a half-smile bloomed on her lips anyway. "So," he said, turning to head back into the hotel, Eames at his side, "what's in New York that you want to get there so badly?"

He watched her while he asked, glad Eames was watching too so he could compare notes with him later. She looked surprised but not furtive, so he didn't think she was necessarily lying about anything. Just gathering information the best way she knew how.

She gave him a cheeky grin, one designed to throw him off. "Ser Arthur, are you certain you're not a knight?"

"It's just Arthur," he smiled back. "But maybe I'll put it on my bucket list. So?"

She sighed at not being able to deter him. "Nothing against the Winchesters; they've been nothing but lovely to me. But I am having a hard time determining their motives about why they're being so lovely. I'd like to be beholden to them as little as possible, as I have no way to repay them, currently."

Eames spoke up. "I don't know if it helps since you've just met me, but I have known the Winchesters for 30 or so years, and I can tell you why they're being lovely."

Sansa wasn't the only one curious about the answer to that one.

"It's because they're the kind of blokes who believe they have to save everyone. And if the thing they're helping you fix is in any way their fault, they will literally kill themselves trying to right it."

Eames was serious, although Arthur frowned at the use of "literally". But the Winchesters seemed pretty straightforward, as far as he could find. His research had turned up their death certificates, so maybe that's what Eames meant by literally, but nothing that signaled an ulterior motive. It would make more sense for them to want to stay as underground as possible, so putting themselves out there for the benefit of other people wasn't the smartest way to do that. They were either stupid, or noble. Or both.

Sansa seemed to be mulling over what Eames had said.

"And what is in New York?" Arthur asked again.

She gave him a sharp look and another half smile. "Arthur, I do not know what I can and cannot tell you."

"Lady Sansa— "

"— which is why I'll tell you what I know."

She watched attentively Arthur as Eames let them into their hotel room with a wave of his card and Arthur grinned at her. He approved of Lady Sansa.

While Arthur got an extra set of his workout clothes for her, she told them what she'd heard about the Tesseract, the portals it had opened. The ones Dean and Sam had closed. Including the one she'd come through.

"So that's why they're doing it," mused Eames. "Where are you really from, love?"

"Westeros."

Arthur searched his mental banks and came up blank. "I don't know it. What's it like there?"

"It's..." Sansa paused, and for the first time since he'd known her, looked uncertain. "It has been a long winter. But it is home. And I'd like to return if possible."

Arthur frowned in acknowledgment. "You can change in there, then we'll work."

She nodded and accepted the clothes. "Arthur?" she asked, hesitating in the doorway.

He looked up at her, preparing to brush aside her thanks.

But instead, she said, "I really like your clothing." Then she ducked into the bathroom, leaving him feeling disproportionately pleased.

...

Arthur knocked on Sansa's hotel room door the next morning. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but when she answered the door dressed head to toe in a heavy velvet gown and furred shawl, he wasn't sure who was more surprised.

"Arthur? Is... everything alright?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yes. I just. Thought you might like a little more practice. If you're not too sore."

"Oh, well I—"

"The hotel gift shop had some things in your size," Arthur said, thrusting the plastic bag at her. "My hotel, of course, not yours. If you want to practice, I mean."

Sansa's eyes flickered to the room next door, and Arthur followed her gaze.

"I already spoke with Dean and Sam. They said it was fine."

"And the hunt?" she asked.

Arthur flashed her a tight smile. "Not for a while yet."

She nodded and accepted the bag. "Thank you for your generosity and your hospitality."

"Ah. Sure."

The sparring session was successful, at least in Arthur's opinion, although Sansa wanted to keep going each time he made her stop and drink water and rest. She was good at takedowns, which she said she and Dean had practiced, so they worked on throws and escapes. She worked hard.

"So, you're from Westeros, and it's winter there, and you're going back. What are you going back to?" Arthur asked, trying to get her to breathe in between sets, to let her body rest for a few minutes. He'd never met anyone who just kept going like her.

She took a drink of water. "My kingdom. Kingdoms, actually. Three of them. You're speaking to the Queen in the North, Leader of the Freefolk, for whatever that's worth, and Queen of the Iron Islands."

Arthur gave a low whistle. "Very impressive."

"Mmm," she hummed. "It's a lot of meetings is what it is. And it's a lot of chess. Do you have that here?"

"Chess? Yeah, we do. I've never played though."

She squinted at him. "Oh, I don't think that's true."

He grinned.

"It's getting a bit late," she said. "Should we head back?"

"Nah," Arthur said. "We've got time. So, is there a Mr. Queen of the Iron Islands?"

She came the closest he'd seen to a real laugh. She shrugged one shoulder. "A few have tried. One even survived." She looked at him, and then she let loose a real laugh at whatever his face was doing. He chuckled along with her. She said, "I have two brothers and a little sister. They're all that's left. And Ghost."

"Ghost?"

"My wolf," she grinned at him.

Arthur nodded. "Ah yes," he grinned back. "Naturally."

They sat for a moment, and Arthur let her just exist for a moment, her eyes far away. As far away as Westeros, he was sure.

"I don't belong in this world," she said, as if she were talking to herself. "But sometimes… a part of me wishes I did."

Arthur couldn't give her that. But he could distract her by showing her how to punch things, and so he did.


	10. Dean is a Grown-Ass Man

"Son of a bitch," Dean gusted out, fists on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath.

Sam panted next to him, the bloody machete in his hand matching Dean's drip for drip. They leaned against the wall of the old train depot which marked the front of the vamps' lair and Dean tried to stop the shaking in his tricep.

"Son of a… bitch," he said again, flexing his arm. "Either I'm getting older or these bastards are getting stronger."

Sam laughed. "Bit of both, big brother."

Dean couldn't even be mad. "Yeah, well. When can we get some new recruits so we can, I don't know, train the next generation or something?"

Sam, still breathless, Dean was validated to see, gestured vaguely towards the interior of the depot, where their recently added team member was on the phone, probably to let his partner know he was still alive and still not a vampire.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's suggestion. "I've already tried Eames. He's not interested. You can work on Arthur. That kid hates me."

Sam looked at him. "Kid? Dude, he's older than I am."

Dean blinked. Huh. Then he shook it off. "Yeah, whatever. Still younger than me. And he still hates me."

They both sat there and breathed for a while, waiting, thinking.

"What about her?"

Dean glanced at Sam sharply. "What about her?" he snapped.

Sam shrugged. "She wanted to come. And she's going to be pissed at you."

Dean shook his head and walked around, trying to stave off the adrenaline crash. He flicked the blood off the blade in his hand, a new arc of crimson staining the wall. "Yeah, well. She'll be alive to be as pissed at me as she wants to. I'm not sorry I didn't bring her."

Sam pressed his lips together. "I just hope she's not—"

"It doesn't matter, okay?" Dean barked at him. "She's going home as soon as we can figure it out, so it makes no sense to have her get killed by stupid vampires before—"

He broke off as Eames trotted up, grinning and smeared in blood, carrying his borrowed machete blade.

"Fun job you blokes have here," he said. Dean and Sam said nothing. The awkward silence stretched until Eames, the bastard, said, "What are we talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Dean wants an heir so he can pass on the family business," Sam said at the same time, and Dean tried to murder him with his eyes.

"Well, now!" Eames said, and laughed. "Things really have changed then, haven't they, my friend?"

"Alright, alright, knock it off," Dean snapped. "Are we done here?" At Eames' raised hands and step backward, he said, "Excellent," and lead the way outside.

The bright afternoon sunlight was almost blinding.

He squinted as he dropped his gear in the trunk, gratefully stowing the unneeded ingredients for a vampire cure and making sure the weapons were where he could find them if they needed them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Eames expertly wipe down the door handle for fingerprints before he returned the borrowed blade.

"So," Eames said, "Arthur and I have a few loose ends to tie up regarding the coverup, and I could use an extra hand. How are you boys at running a short con?"

Dean closed the trunk. "We've got a glove box full of badges that says we do alright. How long is this going to take? I'm starving."

"Two hours, tops."

Dean's stomach growled.

"I'll go," Sam said, tossing his bag in the back seat. "Why don't you go pick up Arthur and Lady Sansa, get some food, and we'll meet up with you when we're done."

Dean shrugged and ignored the flutter in his stomach. He was a grown-ass man, for Christ's sake. "Sure. Whatever."


	11. Sansa Gets Handled

Arthur's phone rang just as he suggested a break, and Sansa grabbed her water and a towel. He'd wrapped her hands in some kind of gloves so she could hit the pads he held in front of her, but she honestly felt like she was the one who had taken the beating.

She gave him some space and tried to catch her breath, his chants of "Again," ringing in her ears. She would be hearing Arthur's brisk commands in her sleep, she was sure of it.

She definitely heard the change in his tone from, "Speak," to, "Are you okay? Do you need me?"

The hitch in Arthur's voice, that undisguised concern made her look up, sure she'd imagined it. He was facing away from her, his shoulders high and tight, ready for action even as he stood still. Then he barked, "Your teeth better be the exact same, you hear me?" but he was sinking onto a bench as he said it, slumped with relief.

Sansa rose, understanding settling in her gut. She'd been left behind. She'd been lied to and handled, and she thought she'd gotten over being hurt by something like that, after so much time and so many attempts. But, she reminded herself, she was, after all, a Queen. And she apparently needed to remind everyone else.

She stripped off the gloves, and the rough sound of the fabric separating was loud enough to make Arthur look up. He straightened and became _Arthur_ once again, and she looked at him flatly, cold and cruel, the way queens looked at those who should know better.

"Yeah," he said into the phone. "Yeah. I will. Okay. Right." He watched her. She set the gloves on the bench and then exited toward the room of lockers.

"Lady Sansa."

She didn't want to listen, but she only let herself get three more steps away before she stopped. She wasn't angry. Queens didn't get angry. Queens got even. She refused to look at him though.

He didn't say anything at first, and she just stood there, staring at the sweating, grey walls and waiting.

"I apologize for deceiving you," he said, succinctly.

She ran a tongue over her teeth, grounding herself. "Your apology does little to make you sound sorry."

"I'm not."

She looked at him then, his lean, wiry frame comfortable in his own skin.

"Dean wanted me to keep you safe. I couldn't confirm I could do that, since I've never hunted these things before. This was my compromise, and he agreed."

Sansa turned to him, head held high and regarded him carefully. "I don't appreciate being treated like a child," she said. "But as it seems that was not your decision," she allowed, "I shall direct my displeasure elsewhere."

Arthur shrugged, hands in his pockets. "If you'd like."

She gave him the look she gave from her father's throne, the one which made lords quake. "I know my own mind, Arthur."

He bowed his head and she turned on her heel, the low shoes Nat had purchased for her squeaking on the floor.

…

Dean unwrapped his food, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and Sansa meant to keep ignoring him, or perhaps berate him, except what popped out of her mouth was, "Do you mind if we eat outside?"

Dean paused, a french fry halfway to his mouth as he studied her. "It's October."

She lifted an unapologetic eyebrow. "It's very warm here. Surely you'll be alright."

He looked incredulous but shoved the food into his mouth with a muttered, "Fine," wrapped up the food and stood up from the booth.

She pursed her lips at the back of his head and followed him outside. Arthur was at the other end of the parking lot speaking quickly into his phone, one hand on his hip, and Dean spread their food on the hood of his Impala. He leaned against the black metal and took a large bite of a greasy sandwich wrapped in paper. Sansa followed his lead, the food hitting her tongue a welcome distraction.

"You left me," she finally said, studying him coolly.

Dean just nodded, his cheeks puffed out with the large bite he'd taken, his eyes squinting as he surveyed the horizon.

Sansa ate slower, thinking. Dean ate like he wasn't sure where his next meal was coming from, but in the time they'd been together, the meals were constant and large. He wasn't going to apologize. He might, she conceded, have been right to leave her out of a fight she had no experience in. And he had returned, still ready to help her get home. But that didn't excuse—

Dean turned up the collar of his jacket, ducking away from the wind. "Is it too cold?" she asked, curious. "If you are chilled, we can go back—"

"It's fine," he broke in. "What kind of man do you think I am that I can't handle the outdoors?" He shifted his weight. "This is actually better, you know. I was getting kind of hot in there, so." He trailed off and took another bite, curled in on himself, his back to the wind.

Sansa bit back a smile. "Of course. I mean, I didn't assume you were cold, since you're so… virile."

He looked wary, like he wasn't sure if she was teasing, and she let him wonder, her face blank.

"Right. Of course. Virile, that's," he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, "that's me."

Her tongue was going to bleed if she kept this up. Unbelievably, she felt a warm fondness for Dean replace her previous annoyance.

"Do you know why I asked to come on the hunt?" she asked as Dean finished his sandwich in three monstrous bites.

Dean just shrugged, balling up the paper and moving on to the french fries, eating so fast she wondered if he could taste it.

"I wanted to prove my worth to you and Sam," she barreled on. "My little sister would say that I am useless in such a situation, but I can assure you—"

Dean's eyebrows drew together. "It doesn't matter. Okay?" He swept the papers into the nearby bin and stuffed his hands in his pockets, glaring out at the world. "I wasn't going to let you come and distract everyone, or worse, get hurt and die. You're going home, and that's the end of it. And in the meantime, you're my responsibility to keep safe. Got it?"

Sansa felt her appetite ebb but took a bite of the food in her hand anyway, chewing and fighting the rise in her gut. "I understand," she said, keeping her voice light. And she did. "I have responsibilities to keep people safe also. I know what it's like to take care of siblings. However, I am not a child. And I assure you I can be reasoned with. Which is why," she stressed, "I would appreciate you including me in your plans for me."

Dean grunted, staring into the distance. "It's different with me," he said brusquely. "This isn't a kingdom we're talking about here. I would die to keep Sam safe. So that's what I need to be focused on."

Sansa licked her lips and took a deep breath. "It is not different," she said. "I have siblings, and they are more important than kingdoms. There used to be six of us," she said, looking away. "There are four now."

Dean stopped glaring at the field past the parking lot and looked at her, his eyes older than she'd ever seen them. "What happened?" he finally asked.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and turned her face to the wind, letting the cool breeze whip her hair out behind her. "When the wars started, my older brother, Robb, declared himself King in the North. He was killed by our allies for having the audacity to marry for love instead of politically." She gave a half smile, but she knew it was falling flat. "They killed his wife and their unborn child too. And my mother."

She made the mistake of looking at Dean, whose face reflected her pain back at her. She didn't cry. She was not a cryer. But her throat felt tight, and she fought her emotions down.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, and that might have been the first time anyone had bothered to say it to her.

"Thank you," she said, and she meant it. "I want you to realize, Dean, that I can appreciate your ends. But I have a problem with your means."

Dean looked at her, an eyebrow raised, and he seemed to be fighting a smile. "I can appreciate _your—_ I mean. Yeah. Lady Sansa. I will try to have better," he gestured, "means."

"Thank you."

He grunted.

They sat for a bit, not eating anymore, just lost in their own pasts, until Dean cleared his throat. "So. What happened to the other one?"

This time her smile was not possible. "My youngest brother, Rickon, was killed by my husband."

Dean looked like she'd punched him in the stomach. "Husband?"

"Former," she clarified. "He's dead now."

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "And how did _he_ die?"

She didn't say anything, just looked at him steadily. When it became apparent she wasn't going to say anything, Dean's eyebrows climbed.

"Well, now. That's a bit different than hunting pigeons."

Her spine stiffened at his teasing. "Can you honestly say you'd have done differently?" she asked.

"No," Dean answered without hesitation. "Not when it comes to little brothers. Hell, if it had been me, I'd have killed the bastard twice."

Sansa blinked. "How did you know he was a bastard?"

Dean blinked back. "What?"

"What?"

They stared at each other for a beat, until a slow, wide smile spread over Dean's face. His easy chuckle and the crinkle of his eyes made it hard not to join him.

"Okay, so," Dean said, tossing his remaining trash towards the bin and making it on the first try, "enough about him. There's four of you. You, a brother that reminds you of Sam, and a little sister who is a better fighter than you. Who else?"

Sansa warmed, thinking of her family. "Bran, my younger brother, is becoming the Three-Eyed Raven."

Dean made a face like he was impressed, and she bit her lip in a smile. She knew how it sounded, but she was proud of Bran. She'd always known Bran was destined for great things. He'd always been so interested in books when he was littler, and when he'd lost the use of his legs, it was a blessing he could distract himself.

"Three eyes, huh?" Dean said. "You don't say."

She chuckled softly and said, "I don't really understand everything, but he's a... seer? Like a wise man, I suppose. He holds the knowledge of the past, and can see the future."

"Oh," Dean nodded, appearing to understand. "I know a few of those. We just call them psychics."

Sansa warmed, pleased he was willing to accept what had taken her a long time. "It was a lot to get used to," she confessed, unwilling to imply she hadn't rejected his prophecies outright, called him a liar, and forced him to prove himself before she was ready to believe him. Her cheeks burned in shame, but she smiled over it.

Dean just smiled, warm and wide. "I hear that. Especially if they're seeing stuff about you. Kind of hard to accept."

Sansa nodded and even took another bite of her food, previously forgotten in her hands. Dean watched her, then cleared his throat and rubbed his hands on his thighs.

"So. Two brothers, one sister. Anyone else?" He frowned, casting around. "Boyfriend, maybe? Or your dad?"

Sansa swallowed and shook her head. "Both of my parents are dead." She held herself still, not really wanting to talk about her father's death and hoping the hurt didn't still leak through. Dean's eyes told her it didn't matter though.

"I know how that is, too," was all he said, but the look he gave her said he actually did understand. He knew it didn't stop hurting just because everyone thought it should. It spoke volumes of horrors witnessed and buried, deep down.

"I am sorry to hear it," she said, and he shrugged.

"I can't complain," he said. "I'm luckier than most. I got to kill the yellow-eyed bastard responsible."

She gave him an odd look. "Yellow eyes? Was he a white walker? An undead?" She had visions of wights and their blue eyes, menacing and unfeeling.

Dean moved his head in a "so-so" motion. "It's a long story. Actually," he said, thinking, "all of our stories are long."

She smiled at him, knowing full well how long your own story could feel, even if you were right in the middle of it.

Dean bent at the waist and picked up a handful of the small rocks from the ground. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he started to toss them, one at a time, toward the bin, each one making a 'ping' as it bounced off. "Stick around long enough though, and I'm sure you'll have a few stories to tell too."

"Will you tell me about her? Your mother?"

Dean looked surprised, then unsure, so Sansa busied herself taking one more bite before wrapping the remaining portions up and storing them safely in a paper bag. If they were traveling the rest of the day, she could get at least two more meals out of the food Dean had provided. It wouldn't do to continue to rely on his kindness when she knew how to ration.

When Dean finally started talking, the things he told about his mother were a strange conglomeration of things a child would notice and stories about her youth with an odd level of detail. Sansa listened, wondering at how his voice took on a bitter tone and some rocks he hurled with more intensity. When he finally stopped talking, it was like a carriage slowing, gradually, and then with a jerk that could toss you about if you weren't ready for it.

He stared at the bin, rocks remaining in his hand forgotten, and a far-off look in his eyes.

"So, I suppose that means you're a liar."

Dean's head swiveled at that, his eyes tightening as he frowned. "I am not a liar." His tone was hard and flat.

Sansa shrugged, unaffected. "You said you were lucky. But that isn't precisely true." He just stared at her, his frown deepening, and she continued, "It wasn't luck. It sounds like sacrifice and hard work. And a long story."

Dean's jaw clenched as he fought for control over whatever demons he was facing, and Sansa had an urge to reach for him, soothe him in some way. She curled her fingers into her palms, wondering at herself, and knowing that whatever the customs here, Westeros would have raised an eyebrow at that.

"Yeah, well,— "

Dean broke off at the sound of an engine, and they watched the other two men pull up in Arthur and Eames' horses-under-the-hood carriage, smaller and sleeker than Dean's. Dean let the remaining rocks he held slide from his fingers as he straightened, shoving his hands in his pockets and, in general, pulling back on a mask she wasn't sure he'd realized he'd dropped.

When the door opened and Eames stepped out from the driver's seat, Sansa smiled a fond hello. He responded, a wide smile that changed as he looked past her.

Arthur was walking up behind them, a dimple showing on his cheek, and she could see why Eames stared at him when he thought no one was looking. Eames enfolded him in a wide embrace, and Sansa checked the others' reactions, prepared to defend them if needed. But Sam simply unfolded himself from the other side of the carriage, wrinkled and smiling at her and Dean, and not even noticing the way Eames was whispering something in Arthur's ear, and Arthur looking distinctly like he was blushing.

"You eat already?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, but I could always go for dessert."

Eames turned his attention to Sansa, grasping her hand and pressing a kiss to the back.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted, his voice low and sensual, and she couldn't stop the blush that crawled up her neck, even though she knew he was teasing.

"Ser Eames," she replied coolly, looking down her nose, making him laugh.

"Alright, don't encourage him," Arthur grumbled, ignoring all of them and striding into the small building, Eames trailing after, presumably to get their own food.

"Why are you guys out here?" Sam asked as he followed Arthur and Eames. "It's freezing."

Dean flashed Sansa a look, his eyes twinkling, and then followed, checking to make sure she was coming. She accompanied them at a distance, waiting for the little thrill and warm sense of belonging that small look had given her to subside.


	12. Nat Needs Advice

Clint peered at her, then adjusted his hearing aid. "Sorry, these things must be going out. You said  _vampires_?"

She looked at him with an eyebrow raised and signed 'vampire' against her neck. "And they were taking her with them," she repeated.

"Vampires," Clint said again. "In Kansas."

Nat frowned and flipped over her phone where she'd laid it on the coffee table to take off her boots. "No… it looks like," she zoomed in, "St. Louis."

Clint leaned forward to see and raised his own eyebrow. "You put a tracker on Dean's car." He gave a low whistle. "Ballsy."

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Tony said he needed me to. I didn't tell him how that it'll probably only be there until Dean washes the car next, but I did it." She chucked her boots towards the bedroom and stretched her feet under the table with a sigh. "Speaking of."

"Nope." Clint went back to his Kindle and took a large bite of the apple he'd snagged from the fruit bowl. "Can't hear you."

She sighed. "Clint." He chewed louder. "He just wants—"

"WHAT?" he said, not looking up. "YOU'RE NOT TALKING TO ME, ARE YOU?"

Nat stretched out along the couch, knowing he could see her in his peripheral view and propped her head on her hand. "He just wants," she said again, patiently, "me to tell him what their plans are. I'd like your advice. Besides," she said with a grin, "you're terrible at negotiations. I'm never leaving them in your hands again."

"Yeah, but I kicked Bruce's ass at Mario Kart." He glanced over, still chewing, but his eyes said he knew what she was asking without asking. He swallowed and put down his book. "How much do you know?"

She frowned. "I can't  _prove_ much, mostly because I don't think they have any plans yet. But I can assume quite a bit." She watched him think about it and tried to embrace the vulnerability she felt. It kept her human, and sane, in times when she felt like she was neither.

"Could what they're going to plan hurt Tony? Or the public?"

Nat tried to spin out every scenario in her head, what she would do and what she thought Dean and Sam might try if pushed far enough. "I think neither, if they were left alone and managed to succeed. I think both if Tony tries to stop them."

"Think you can talk Tony into leaving it alone?"

She shook her head, slowly.

Clint nodded. "Then tell him as little as possible. Don't lie. Just don't give him anything you don't have to."

She licked her lips and Clint didn't look away. He waited.

"And you think that would be... okay?" He knew what she was asking. Tell me this won't be on my ledger if it goes to shit. Tell me I'm doing the right thing.

Clint picked up his book again and gave her a half smile, tender and fond. She gave him a flat look. "It'll be okay," he promised. "You can't turn a contact you already have. You need to keep the Winchesters on our side; you need to keep both them and Tony happy. Doing the thing which will protect the most people is the right thing to do."

She nodded and he went back to his book, but she didn't move and knew he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She pictured the jeans she'd picked out for Sansa, watching her blush as she looked at herself in the mirror but nod that yes, she'd take them. Sansa had felt uncomfortable and vulnerable, and she'd done it anyway. She rolled with the punches better than most people.

"I like her," she admitted to Clint. "I hope nothing bad happens to her."

Clint made a small, non-committal noise around his apple, but when she rose to go report to Tony, he caught her fingers on the way past and squeezed them. She squeezed back, attempting to convey her appreciation for everything he was in a two-second touch. She hoped she was successful.


	13. Arthur Puts Up with a Lot

"So there's one kid in the class who has been talking about his Halloween costume for a month, right," Dean said, already laughing at the story he has only just started telling, and Arthur smiled around the mouth of his beer.

"Skinny rich shit, bragging to everyone how he's going to be Spiderman and how no one else could probably afford to be Spiderman, and how his suit is going to be the most amazing costume there is."

"Oh, man," Sam said, leaning back, "I think I know where this is going."

"Shh," Eames shushed him and reached down to twine his fingers through Arthur's before sipping his own beer.

Arthur watched him, surprised at the public display but not opposed. It was one of those moves it didn't seem like Eames even realized he was doing. A natural outpouring of his too-big personality, flowing over onto Arthur. He ran his thumb over Eames', and Eames winked at him.

"So Eames here organizes an overthrow," Dean continued, his wide grin splitting his face, his normally stormy eyes lit up. "He gets every single kid in that class to commit to buying a Spiderman costume. And to keep it a secret. And then on Halloween day, poor little jerk walks into class," Dean paused, sharing a smile with Eames, "and there's 30 kids wearing the same damn costume as him."

Eames chuckled into his beer as Sam and Dean both cracked up. Even Sansa was smiling, and Arthur watched her notice their joined hands. She glanced up at him and gave him a soft smile, a real one. He returned it and wondered what she was thinking.

"And to top it off, Eames sat in his seat!" Dean said, gasping for breath. "Changed his accent and everything, swore up and down it was his seat. Kid finally had to take off his mask to prove to the teacher Eames really wasn't him."

Even Arthur laughed at that one.

"Man, I wore that Spiderman costume all the time," Sam said. "I had no idea that's why you got Dad to buy it."

Dean shrugged, and Arthur didn't miss the way the laughter died at that.

"What about you, love?" Eames broke in. "You lot have Halloween where you're from?"

Sansa sat up even straighter at being addressed, the AC/DC t-shirt stretching where she'd tucked it into her high-waisted jeans. "No, I don't believe we have that tradition. And it feels like a very long time since I was a child."

Dean snorted but drank his beer instead of saying anything. Lady Sansa raised an eyebrow at him, but said, "It sounds very enjoyable, though. I must say, our traditions are numerous and not very enjoyable."

"Tell us one?" Arthur asked, and she turned to look at him. He watched her and she assessed, deciding if she was being tested.

"Hmm," she said, her eyes remembering. "Each house in Westeros has a sigil. Sort of an icon of what they stand for, their background, that kind of thing. Our mother made us memorize all the noble houses, their sigils, and their house motto and then she would quiz us. Then when we had visitors, we would race each other down the road and see if we could spot the banners, and then run back to tell her. She would give us a sweet if we got it right."

She had a soft, fond smile on her face as she spoke, and Arthur cataloged that one too. That was a real one, but she knew he was looking.

"What's the Stark sigil?" Arthur asked her, and she blinked out of her memories and looked as if surprised they were still interested.

"The direwolf, of course." She gave Dean and Sam a small mischievous smile, who laughed and winced at the same time, and it made her grin wider. "My brother, Jon, found a dying direwolf surrounded by her litter of pups, and there was exactly one for each of us. My father hated it, but he couldn't say no when Jon pointed out House Stark had been without a direwolf for at least three generations."

"Can't imagine why," Dean muttered into his beer. "Six dogs the size of horses. There's only one here and that thing is freaking gigantic."

Eames perked up. "You mean yours came with you?"

Dean scoffed. "It's lurking by my front door every time I leave the house. I've almost died of a heart attack twice."

Eames turned to him with his own puppy dog eyes, but Arthur was unmoved. "No."

"Arthur!"

"We cannot get a dog."

Sanaa's eyes flicked between them, apprehensive, and Arthur tried to show her by smiling at Eames that it was okay. Not a fight. Not her fault.

He managed to confuse the hell out of Eames though.

"Ghost actually isn't mine," Sansa said into the awkward silence. "He was my brother Jon's. But he kept me safe when I needed him." Her voice was wistful. "It's almost like Jon's still with me."

Dean, beside her, shifted in his chair, his face dark. "We'll get you back there. That's a promise. Okay?"

He waited until she looked at him and then he nodded, forcefully, and Arthur bit down a laugh. He chanced a glance at Eames, who was smirking back, the same fondness in his eyes. Arthur supposed they'd been just as obvious once. He rubbed his thumb over Eames' again, just because he could.

"Cover story should break soon," Arthur remarked casually to the group, and Eames checked his watch.

"Right you are, love. That's our exit cue." He stood, buttoning his jacket as Arthur scoped the exits. "Gentlemen. My Lady. We cannot appreciate your help enough. Do you have somewhere we can wire the payment?"

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, a conversation without words. Their surprise was palpable though.

Arthur stood and grabbed the billfold out of his jacket pocket. "Who should I make it out to?"

Dean grinned. "Jimmy Page."

Arthur's lips twitched despite himself and he signed it with a flourish. He handed it to Sam and said, "You have our thanks. If you ever need us, let me know."

"Don't think we could afford you, but," he folded the check without looking at it, "I'll keep it in mind."

Arthur considered him, repocketing his billfold and buttoning his jacket. "Oh, I don't know. Eames and I have a sliding scale."

Eames put one hand on the small of his back and said, "I know I'd take payment in a personal introduction to the Winter Soldier."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And with that, we should go."

Dean and Sam rose and they all exchanged handshakes, and Arthur bent over Sansa's hand. "My Lady," he murmured, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, and she straightened, a small, private smile on her face. When Eames mirrored him moments later, she matched his wide grin, like they were sharing a joke. But with Arthur, they shared a look of mutual respect, and maybe, he thought, she seemed grateful for a bit of normalcy. He could understand that. He'd appreciate a bit, actually. Seriously. Vampires.


	14. Dean's Raven

The ride home was quiet, Sam looking up shit on his phone and Sansa in the back seat. Dean caught glimpses of her in the rearview mirror and she seemed distant. When she pulled her feet up next to her and rested her head on the side panel, he almost said something. But at the last second, he chastised himself for being a dumbass and drove with his knees long enough to take off his coat.

"You alright?" Sam asked, looking at him curiously.

"Yeah, why?" he said, passing the jacket back.

He'd assumed she'd use it for a pillow, but he sensed more than watched her spread it over herself and curl up underneath it. She hadn't said anything since she'd said goodbye to Arthur.

Dean cleared his throat. "So. Uh. Arthur."

Sam looked up, checking to make sure Dean was talking to him. Dean just raised his eyebrows. "Oh, um. Yeah. He seems like a good guy. He sent me this spreadsheet with vampire lore he'd found, and it was like, cross-referenced." Sam shook his head. "Pretty impressive."

"Yeah." Dean tried not to roll his eyes. "Whatever. I mean, we probably could have used him today."

"Yeah, I think he can handle himself. And Sansa seemed to like him, so."

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror and Sansa looked like she was asleep. "What do you mean?"

Sam glanced at him. "Uh, nothing. Just seemed to get along, that's all."

"Like," Dean shifted in his seat. "Like get along how?"

Sam scoffed. "Seriously? We're doing this? With Eames' boyfriend?"

"Doing what?" Dean frowned.

"You are insane. Whatever. Just don't pee on her to mark your territory."

…

Dean wandered into the war room, flipping the lights on and then back off. He ran his hand over the kitchen table on his way past it, drumming his fingers in a patternless rhythm as he tried to keep his mind off the fact that there was a woman living in their house. Like, she wasn't there permanently. But she was  _always there._ He woke up, she was in the kitchen eating toast with tiny bites. He went to brush his teeth and her washcloth was draped on the towel rack, her hair was in the shower drain, her smell was hanging in the humid air. He wasn't sure where she was going to be at any given minute, so he spent half the time trying not to spook her when he entered a room, and the other half getting spooked himself. He needed to put a bell on her.

Right now she was somewhere in the dorms, and Dean crossed his arms and glared at the doorway out of the kitchen, daring her to walk through it just as he was heading to his room.

Sam drew even with him, laptop tucked beneath his arm and glanced at him before copying his stance and glaring down the entryway.

"What are we scowling at?"

Dean dropped his arms, clenching his jaw at being mocked. He gestured to the doorway. "What is she doing in there?"

Sam looked halfway between amused and bewildered. "Who?"

Dean boggled at him. "The frigging tooth fairy, Sam. Who the hell did you think?"

Sam was grinning for real now. "Sansa went for a walk with Ghost."

Dean paused. "Oh."

"Yeah. While you were in the shower."

Dean felt the tension drop off his shoulders. "Oh."

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, and Dean bristled. "What?"

Sam frowned his innocence, eyebrows raised. "Hey, nothing. Just because you need to know where she is at all times…"

"She's like a damn cat!" Dean exploded, defensive. "She turns up when I don't expect it—" He broke off at Sam fighting back a smile, poorly, and put his hands on his hips. "I just don't like sharing my space, okay? It makes me jumpy."

"Fine," Sam said, clearly not believing him.

"Oh, come on, what?"

"Nothing! She makes you jumpy. So, okay, let's work on getting her home."

Dean, who was expecting to be teased unmercifully for reasons he could not fathom, was almost surprised at the change of subject. "Yes, okay, good. What have we got?"

Sam turned and put his laptop on the counter. "Well, I sent Pepper an email because Tony never answers me. I told him what happened, mentioned we were going to be sending her home, and when he had a second, call me so we could work out the details."

"And?"

"Nothing yet. But in the meantime," he said, over the top of Dean's sigh, "I've been trying to find other dreamwalkers, to see if they can maybe contact Sansa's world, open a rift, so we can send her back through."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, that's a dead end. There aren't any more."

Sam fidgeted. "Maybe. Or maybe you could talk to Eames and Arthur and see if they know of anyone like that?"

Dean pointed at him. "Hey, now that's an idea. Let's find out if they've landed yet wherever the hell it was they were flying to."

He dialed and rolled his eyes at Eames' ridiculous outgoing message. "Hey, it's Dean," he said. "Listen, I might have to call in that favor sooner than I thought. We're working on getting her Ladyship home and we're trying to track down some information. Sorta in your guys' line of work, so give me a call back when you get a minute."

Sam did that thing where he shrugged with his eyebrows as he folded his lanky frame in front of the computer again. "I'll keep looking. Don't worry. Something will turn up."

"Hm. Yeah." He rapped the counter. "I'm gonna go tuck Baby in for the night."

Sam jerked his chin in acknowledgment, already engrossed in whatever he was looking at, and Dean was just glad he didn't have to look up lore in the library.

The night was clear and crisp, the sky just deepening from blue to black, and somewhere, someone had a bonfire going. Dean breathed in deep and closed his eyes.

"Hello, Dean."

"JEEZ-us—" Dean jumped, grabbing for a weapon that wasn't there. "Lord, woman, between you and him," he pointed at Ghost, standing beside her with his laughing tongue lolling, "I am going to die of angina."

Sansa, who obviously didn't understand when to apologize in this timeline, grinned at him. Her whole face warmed, eyes laughing, and okay, he couldn't really stay pissed when she was looking at him like  _that_. It'd be like hating rainbows or something.

Ghost dipped his head to sniff at the pile of mauled fur at his feet, then gently picked it up and dropped the dead rabbit on Dean's boot.

"Now, see?" he said. "At least one of you knows how to apologize for sneaking up on a guy."

"Actually," Sansa said, still grinning, "I think he's just full. Did you want these too?" She raised the pair of rabbits she'd been holding by her side.

Probably should be more observant, Winchester, he chastised himself _._ His dad's voice in his head wasn't as gracious.

"He caught rabbits for you?" he asked, stupidly, and Ghost yawned.

Sansa nodded and then her eyes flitted everywhere but at Dean. "I thought I might be able to contribute to the rations."

"Oh." Dean didn't really know how to respond to that. "Well, we aren't really rationing..." he started, but changed his mind when he saw the defeated fall of her smile. "But hey, the more the merrier, right? We can make a stew."

He held his hand out for the rabbits and she flashed him a quick smile, there and gone, as she handed them over.

"You can keep yours," he said to Ghost, who sneezed at Dean and trotted off into the darkness, moving silently and blending into the shadows better than any white animal should have a right to.

Dean shook his head and set the brace on the ground next to the bunker entrance to grab on his way back in.

"Oh, did I interrupt you?" Sansa asked.

Dean looked at her, still wearing his AC/DC shirt tucked into her new jeans, not even shivering in the brisk autumn air. "Nope, not interrupting. Just going to spend some quality time with my Baby." He flashed her the grin that had charmed the socks, and more, off of many a waitress, but Sansa just raised an eyebrow.

"Your… baby."

Dean thought she might have grimaced. "Hey now," he frowned, putting his body between her and the car. "She can hear you." He jerked his head to indicate the Impala parked behind him and mouthed, ' _be nice!_ '

Sansa's lips twitched. "Ah, I see. And what does 'quality time' consist of?"

"Well,  _that_ ," Dean teased, leaning in close to confide in her, "is a very intimate question. I wouldn't want to shock you. It happens to be a sensitive and time-honored tradition. I can't just be parading that information out in front of everyone, now can I?"

"I suppose not," she agreed with a smirk. She didn't back away, just looked up at him, her soft quiet smile and her ancient pale-blue eyes. She looked, as always, like she knew what he'd say before she even asked him anything. It was as if she was following his lead for his benefit, not hers. Dean watched the curve of her mouth and stepped into the space between them.

He knew could push this, if he wanted. He could sense the opportunity, the opening, the way he always could. He knew what women liked about him, and he could convince her. He had done it time after time, truck stop diner after backwoods bar.

And just like that, Dean felt like the ass he was. This wasn't some bored waitress looking for a fling. She was, as she kept reminding him, a queen. And he was responsible for sending her home.

He leaned back, just a hair, and watched her eyes blink away from his mouth. "Actually," he grinned sheepishly, "I was just going to clean out the junk food containers and wipe down the seats."

Sansa looked like she was fighting back a smile. "And would you accept any help?"

Dean tilted his head like he was considering. "Yeah, why not?"

So they mucked out Baby, and Dean put some leather treatment on the seats because he could, and Sansa windexed the windows, inside and out. Dean even averted his eyes from the windshield when she stretched across it to wipe the middle. She was a  _queen_ , after all. She didn't deserve to be ogled. Well, she did, actually. Sansa was very definitely worthy of ogling. But not by him. Well, not by anyone else, either. He was perfectly capable of ogling her; if anyone was going to do it, it should really be him.

He ogled her a little bit.

When Baby was spotless on the inside and smelling like a set of clean sheets, Dean ran a rag over the bottom edge of the exterior. No sense leaving the road grime to build up between washings, especially when the temperature was getting so damn —

"What the hell…?" Dean pulled his rag back and reached under the back wheel well. His fingers found the odd plastic lump stuck there, and he clenched his jaw. "Hey, Pigeon Hunter. Grab me that flashlight in the glove box, would ya?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Where would that be, and what does one look like, please."

Dean waved his hand toward the front of the car, crouching down to peer under the lip of the car. "The compartment in front of the passenger. It's a black tube with a button on it."

He couldn't see much in the dark, but there was a dim red light illuminating the square of plastic and he frowned. When he heard Sansa's footsteps in the gravel again, he held his hand out and felt the cool weight of the flashlight in his palm. "Alright, what do we have here?" he muttered to himself as he fiddled with edging his pocket knife under the square. "I think I can just…" It popped off with a little pressure and Dean caught it. "Ha ha, gottcha. Now, let's see."

He shined the light on the small device, a slim antenna on one side, and a Stark Industries symbol on the other. Dean sucked his lips over his teeth and switched off the flashlight. "Son of a bitch."

"I beg your pardon," Sansa said, stiffly.

He looked at her, drawn up tall and regal, and blinked. He stood and handed her the tracking device. "Here. The perfect present from one friend to another."

Sansa thawed enough to take and examine the device. "But what… is it?"

Dean opened the trunk and got out a hammer. "Apparently, it's what you get from the guy who has everything." He took the device back from her and laid it on the asphalt. "Step back." Then he smashed the everloving hell out of it.

With a grunt, he tossed the hammer back in and brushed off his hands. Sansa eyed him warily.

"As tired as I am of saying it, I don't understand," she said, a mix of annoyance and resignation in her voice. "Although I suppose I had better get used to it."

Dean fired off a text to Nat and shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Yeah. Sorry about that. It was a tracking device. Which is a thing that keeps track of where you are and works like a—"

"—Oh! Like a raven!" Sansa said, her eyes excited. "It works like a raven, yes? It remembers where it came from and takes a message back. Is that correct?"

Dean drew back, looking at her. "Raven, like the bird, or Raven like your brother?"

Her eyes crinkled. "The bird." She looked pleased he'd remembered and Dean tried not to let that warm him.

"You guys use birds to send messages back and forth?" She nodded, and Dean shrugged. "Yeah, that makes sense. Except we never used ravens. We used… well, pigeons." He grinned, and she smiled back. The formidable queen from before was gone, and she was just Sansa again, wearing his shirt, moonlight gleaming on her plait of red hair.

Dean cleared his throat and leaned back against the grill of his car, putting a little more space between them. It was a nice night, even if it was cool. Dean shrugged his flannel closer to him. Sansa joined him in leaning against the grill, copying his stance of crossed arms and crossed ankles. Dean could feel the warmth of her from where her arm brushed his.

A breeze rustled the cottonwood trees which lined the road and the shushing flicker of their leaves sounded like home. The first stars winked from behind the clouds.

"Do they look the same as Westeros?" Dean said, indicating the stars.

Sansa was already looking, her long neck pale and perfect in the moonlight. "I wish I knew. They feel the same. Cold and distant." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "I keep thinking that any of my siblings would have been better prepared to be the one to end up here. Bran would be able to map the stars and tell you about Westeros history. Arya would prove herself in a fight for you. And Jon… well, Jon would fit right in."

Dean knew he was staring, but she kept her eyes on the stars and he allowed himself to look a little longer. "Oh, I don't know," he said, frowning. "I think you're doing just fine."

She gave him a reproachful look and Dean shrugged. "Hey, I call it like I see it," he said. "Besides, I bet Jon would look ridiculous in those jeans."

She laughed. The small tinkle of sound fell from her lips, and Dean was staring again. "I look ridiculous in them." She faced him, her eyes lowered. "But thank you, Ser Dean."

Dean wanted to cup her face, pull the wisps of hair around his finger, trace her lips. He cleared his throat and looked back out at the night.

"You know, my dad's name was John."

He could feel her eyes on him, but he curled his fingers under the lip of Baby's hood and didn't say anything else. Then he sensed movement and turned to see Sansa leaning back until she was laying on Baby, hands folded on her stomach, her eyes on the stars.

"Was he a good father?"

"Hell, yes," Dean said, maybe a little too loud. Sansa didn't say anything, and Dean rubbed his palms down his thighs. With a sigh, he lay back next to her, the cool metal not doing much to keep away the chill. His boots crunched gravel under his feet, and he folded his hands too. "He taught us everything we know," he continued, a little quieter. The trees formed an archway overhead, with a strip of cloudy sky between them. The breeze was moving them quickly, and soon the stars seemed to grow and spread.

"Me and Sammy," Dean said, not sure why he kept talking, "we were all he had, after Mom died. He kept us alive, taught us how to keep ourselves alive. That was what he cared most about. He showed us how to save people, and how to hunt things. He was the  _best_."

Dean wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, and when he turned his head to risk a glance at Sansa, she was already looking at him. There wasn't pity or judgment in her gaze, just patience, and deep in her eyes, a sense of knowing. He felt like she had heard more than he'd said, and he turned back to the sky. "What about your dad?"

Sansa gave a small sigh, almost like a breath she'd forgotten about. "He was a good man. And he was a great leader. Wise. Respected. I was… well, his death was..." she licked her lips and blinked hard. "It was hard for me. I'd hoped that once I'd married, he'd be called to meetings in King's Landing, and I'd be there to greet him, and he'd see me as a grown woman. You know. See my worth."

Dean frowned and turned to her, and she looked embarrassed. "I don't know why I'm telling you that," she said, scoffing quietly. "I've never told anyone that. Ladies aren't supposed to…" she trailed off, looking at the sky again, and Dean watched her, trying to understand. "I was always the good girl," she said, inclining her head. "I did what I was supposed to, went where I was told. I studied, and sat, and was  _proper_. And my siblings were always disobeying, getting into trouble. They never…" Her lips were a thin line. "I used to get so angry at them because nothing good came that way. Except…"

She stopped talking and Dean was afraid she was done.

"Except what did being proper ever get you?" he asked, sympathetically.

She turned her head to look at him, surprised. "No. No, Dean Winchester, being proper saved my life. It didn't always make my life very pleasant," she admitted, looking back at the sky, "but I was allowed to go on living it. I didn't fight with a sword the way my sister or my brothers did, but I  _fought_."

Dean looked at her, the hard set of her jaw, the fierce determination in her eyes as she stared down the stars.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I believe you did."

They were quiet for a while, Dean hyper-aware of her just inches away, stretched out on the hood of his car. He tried to focus on her dead dad. His dead dad. Dead vamps. Dead kittens.

"So," Sansa asked, "who was the message from? On your Baby."

Dean cleared his throat and looked at her with his innocent face. "The more annoying Stark. Tony. You're sure you two aren't related, right?"

He grinned, teasing, but at the mention of Tony's name, it was as if shutters had been pulled shut behind Sansa's eyes. For all he'd been trying to keep his mind out of the gutter moments ago, Stark's name seemed to have done a much better job of it.

Dean watched the gears turn in her head. "Tony Stark is the one in New York, yes?" she asked.

Dean nodded, and she turned to glare at the stars again, a flat look on her face. What the hell did he just do wrong?

"So," he tried, "did you—"

But Sansa sat up suddenly, her tennis shoes scraping the gravel before Dean could even get off the hood.

"Hey, wait! Sansa—"

"Why did you destroy it?" Sansa turned back suddenly. "The message."

Dean stopped, taken aback. "Because that guy is a dick! And because you don't just put a tracker on someone's car, especially if you're supposed to be 'working together' and 'on the same side' and all that other bull crap," Dean exploded, aggressive finger quotes and all.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and gritted her teeth at the gravel, thinking. Dean shifted. "I just," he said, gentler, "I don't appreciate it when people say they trust me to do a thing, but then don't actually trust me to do the thing."

She cocked her head and studied him in the moonlight. "And what 'thing' might that be, Dean? You finished the task he asked of you, did you not?" Her tone was lethal, and dead serious, and… kinda hot.

"I—"

"My understanding," she said, straightening, "is that we need Tony Stark if we are going to send me back to Winterfell."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"And he sent you a message, which you have demolished. And even though you have assured me it is your only priority, you are now standing between me and my way home."

Dean froze. Oh god, he was such a dumbass. He dragged a hand down his face and over his jaw. "And now you think I'm trying to keep you here. Look, it's not like that, alright," he said, holding his phone up as a white flag. "Here. Okay? Look."

Her face was expressionless, if you didn't count barely concealed fury.

He dialed Tony's number and put it on speakerphone. To everyone's surprise, it rang once and then they heard, "Speak."

"Ahem. Tony. Dean Winchester. So listen. I got your little, uh, gift, and I've been informed that since I am going to be asking for your help here, I may have been a little hasty in my, uh, particular, response."

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ah, the Bash Brothers. Pepper tells me you've been emailing. Something about rescuing the princess?"

"Yeah, something like that. Here's the thing. When we closed the last Tesseract portal, a person from the other side got stuck here. So we're going to need the Tesseract to open it back up so she can go home."

"Mmm, yeah, not gonna happen. But thanks for getting in touch, you know there's nothing I like better than having my tech destroyed and then a personal call about it."

"Listen, you rich—"

"Mr. Stark," Sansa interrupted. "Might I have a word?"

"Well, well, my my. If it isn't the damsel in distress herself. What can I do for you, sweets?"

Sansa raised her eyebrow. "You can start by addressing me properly, Mr. Stark. And you can end by sending me back to my kingdoms."

"I believe you may have heard me when I very clearly said, 'Not. Gonna. Happen.' And I call Queen Elizabeth 'sweets,' so you can just cool it."

"And I'm sure she enjoys that very much," Sansa countered coolly. "However if you fail to get me home, all three of my kingdoms teter on the brink of a new war with the rest of the surrounding kingdoms, which will throw the fate of the Iron Throne into chaos once again. Not to mention I'll have left my people to deal with hoards of the undead on their own."

"I'm going to pretend I care about everything you just said," Stark replied, "and I'm going to counter that with, if I let you open up a portal to another dimension, you're risking the collapse of time and space in  _our_ world, not to mention the possibility of letting hoards of the undead loose on  _my_  people."

"Ohhh," Sansa said, drawing the word out. "I see. You don't have the authority to permit me. Well, why didn't you just say so, Mr. Stark? Please allow me to speak with your superior, and I will make my own arrangements."

"Okay, I don't have a—"

"Thank you. Mr. Stark."

She looked over at Dean, who couldn't help but stare at her, and made a motion with her hand to end the conversation. He scrambled with the box to push a button and Sansa looked smug.

"I do like the ability your device gives to stop other people from talking."

"Yeah," Dean said, dazed. "Yeah, it's good for that. Um." He fidgeted. "You just hung up on Tony Stark."

"Yes, but I wouldn't worry. This is a game I know how to play."

"No, I mean," he grinned, "that was  _awesome_."

Sansa's lips twitched and she raised an eyebrow just as his phone device made a buzzing noise.

Dean checked it and snorted. "He says you're 'something else,' and he says, 'good luck getting Fury to agree.' Which sounds almost like permission."


	15. Arthur is the Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, work got cuh-razy! Here's two chapters as an apology!

Arthur checked them into the hotel while Eames parked the car. He'd sent Sam his spreadsheet from the plane, but he had a few loose ends with the congressman to tie up before he called the job done, and he was anxious to get to them. Dean and Sam might be Eames' friends, but he'd be just fine with putting vampires in his rearview and pretending he'd never heard of them, thanks so much.

But Eames had a look when Arthur opened the door for him.

"What?" Arthur asked, already exhausted.

Eames just cocked an eyebrow and stepped in to remove his jacket. "You needn't worry yourself about it, pet, if you'd rather not. It's a job for Dean, and I'm not about to charge him, so there's no money in it."

Arthur blinked at him, stung. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You think the only reason I do things is for money?"

Eames shrugged. "That's most of my reasons." At Arthur's scoff and eyeroll, he added, "I just don't want you to feel I think you ought to, darling. It's not your fight, and we haven't had a proper holiday for—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur snapped. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Eames cupped his cheek and smiled at him, fond and warm. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it again."

Arthur glared but there was no heat behind it. "Alright, asshole," he said fondly. "What's the job?"

Eames indicated his phone. "Dean says they're looking for information about something in our line of work." He called on speakerphone with raised eyebrows, and Arthur got his notebook.

"Eames?" came Dean's tinny voice.

"Hello, Dean. It appears it's feast or famine when it comes to me, yeah?"

"Well, I hope it's feast, buddy. Listen, have you ever heard of anyone called a dreamwalker?"

Arthur frowned, already writing. Eames' eyes flitted to him but Arthur had nothing. "Explain?"

Sam's voice came on the line. "They're people who can see alternate realities when they're dreaming. Sometimes they don't realize they're doing it."

Eames checked with Arthur again, who was still frowning, going through mental files as fast as he could and pulling his laptop toward him. "You mean just natural dreaming?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "The lore is pretty inconsistent, so I don't have a lot of information. But the visions they see are reality. Just of a different world than ours."

Eames looked a little wrongfooted. "I've never run into anything like that. Arthur?"

Arthur shook his head. He'd never heard the term, and he'd never even heard a whisper of anything like that. Even if the dreamer didn't realize what they were doing, inconsistencies spread like wildfire in the business. He'd have heard  _something._

"He says no, mate."

"Well," Sam said slowly, "is there anyone you could check with, see if anyone else—"

"Hate to tell you this, Sam," Eames interrupted, "but Arthur  _is_  that person. If he doesn't know, it isn't knowable. There's nothing like that. Believe me, we'd have used it."

There was a resigned sigh on the other end and Arthur tugged at one of his ears, suspiciously warm in the face of Eames' compliment.

"Yeah, that's kinda what we figured," Dean admitted. "Thanks, though."

"Dean," Arthur said quickly to stop him from hanging up, "what if we can help a different way?" Eames raised an eyebrow and his lips lifted in a smile.

There was a pause and then, "What do you mean?"

"Well, this is about getting Sansa home, right?"

"Yeah. Just task 3005 of a job that was only supposed to be 100 tasks, feels like. So?"

"So we like Sansa," Arthur said. He shrugged at Eames staring at him, openmouthed. "And we know what it's like to not be able to go home. So just tell us; what's the job?"

* * *

It took three more days to get to Kansas, one of which Arthur spent canceling a job when he couldn't get a replacement pointman and extractor in time. He could have rescheduled it, but the client was a whiny idiot and besides, it made Eames feel extra guilty. Arthur wasn't above allowing Eames to apologize unnecessarily. He was so very good at it.

But Arthur was all business when they got to the bunker with the tell-tale Impala out front. It was a good thing one of them was.

"Ohhhh my gooodness, doesn't anybody play with youuuuu?"

"Eames."

"What?"

"Stop playing with the dog. We've got work to do."

"Coming, darling!" He gave the wolf's ruffled mane one more scratch and whispered, "I'll be back later," and got a long, wet tongue to the face as a reply.

Eames bounded up beside him grinning from ear to ear and Arthur rolled his eyes. God help him, but he loved this man.

Dean's craggy face broke into a wide grin when he spotted them. "Eames! Come on in!"

They embraced like brothers, and there was even a warm smile left over for Arthur. "Arthur, good to see you again."

Arthur nodded and set down the PASIV case so he could shake their hands. Sam gave them a quick tour, then led them to a large conference table. Arthur, eager to work, sat down with Dean and Sam, but Eames held up the wall behind him.

"Alright," Arthur said, uncapping a pen and opening his Moleskin. "Start at the beginning."

Dean nodded. "Well, we'd been cleaning up what Sansa calls "white walkers" for a few days in northern Montana before we actually found her. She and Ghost fell out of the last Tesseract portal just ahead of a big group of them, so I contacted Tony to shut it down, and," he gestured, "pfft. No more Oz."

"We've been looking," Sam said, picking up the narrative, "but there aren't a lot of ways to open portals to another reality."

"You don't say," Eames grunted drily, and Arthur smirked.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, believe it or not. And we don't think we'll be able to use the Tesseract, so we're trying to come up with another way."

"Wait. You don't  _think_?" Arthur asked. "Why not?"

"Because the Tesseract is supposed to go back to some magical fairyland with Thor so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "And in the meantime, apparently we'd have to go through Director  _Fury_  if we want to get access. So that's as good as out."

Eames straightened. "Before we go any further…" He sounded just this side of angry as he put his hands on the table. "... where's Lady Sansa? Why isn't she a part of this discussion?"

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance and Arthur kept his face neutral. Eames' no-nonsense voice got results, and it made odd fluttery things happen in Arthur's belly.

Dean stayed where he was, arms crossed, his lips a thin line, but Sam gave a terse nod and stood to get her. When he returned with a velvet-gowned Sansa in tow, Arthur stood.

"Sansa, my love, there you are!" Eames held out his hands to her, all previous traces of anger gone.

She blinked her surprise. "Good evening, Eames. How do you fare?"

Eames chuckled as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "Very well, my Lady. Listen, we are all working toward the same goal, so it makes sense you're here as well. And there's no sense in you putting together your own plan when we may be able to help you."

Sansa glanced quickly at Dean and Sam. "I…"

"So we are going to work together," Eames interrupted, "until this is done, or until we cannot help each other anymore. Understood?"

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sansa and she flushed. "I understand."

Arthur bit back a smirk.

Eames grinned widely at everyone. "Excellent. Now, we are a new team, so the first thing on any new team is to build trust, and we are going to do that by sharing information. Arthur?"

Arthur sat up straighter. "Yeah, okay, so here's what we know so far. There's one way you know of to get Sansa home, and that's through Fury. There might be other ways, but you have no leads and no new ideas. So Fury is the most direct route, except he won't just agree to let us open a portal. Right?"

"Right," Sam and Dean said together.

"But perhaps we can talk to him," Sansa protested, "and I might be able to—"

"You don't know Fury," Dean interrupted.

"To explain to him the situation," Sansa continued like he hadn't spoken, "and appeal to his mercy."

"You don't  _know_ Fury," Dean said again. "He doesn't have  _mercy_. He's like Samuel L Jackson. But with an  _eyepatch_. He's frigging terrifying. And not to mention, trying to appeal to his mercy will put all of us, especially Eames and everyone he's ever known, on Fury's radar. So no-can-do, Pigeon Hunter. We need to find another way."

Arthur and Eames exchanged a look. "What if there was a way to change Fury's mind, without him knowing how it happened?" Arthur suggested.

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" Dean said.

Arthur flipped back a page in his notebook. "What Eames and I do, Dean. Aside from stealing ideas, we've been known, on occasion, to plant them as well."

There was silence around the table as they all took that in.

"We do not have this in my world," Sansa said slowly.

"Yeah, mine either," Dean mumbled under his breath. "Okay, so how does this work? Like a spell? Do you need ingredients or what?"

Arthur smiled. "No, just as much information as you can get me, and then more on top of that."

"And then what?" Dean grunted. "Fury wakes up one morning and says to himself in the mirror, 'You know what sounds like a good idea? Ripping open a portal through time and space to a different world. Let me call my good friends Dean and Sam.'"

"No," Eames said carefully, "planting an idea is complex. It requires a very simple idea, and even then, it must be broken down into its most basic parts and fed to the mark bit by bit."

"Right," Arthur said. "It has to seem self-generated, otherwise he'll know it was from an outside source, and he'll reject it."

"I have known many men like this," Sansa said, matter-of-factly. "Which is why if I could  _speak_  with him, I might be able to change his mind myself."

"But if you are unable," Eames said gently, "then this plan cannot work, and Arthur and I may be in danger. Let us try first, my Lady? If it does not work, then I will fly you to New York myself, and buy you and Fury a cuppa."

Sansa studied him. Finally, she nodded. "Very well."

Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just crossed his arms and Arthur pulled his laptop toward himself.

"I will need to pull as much information about Fury, where he's located, his normal routines, and who he's close to," he admitted. "It will take some time."

"Alright," Dean said, sounding pissed off, "what do you need from us?"

"For now, you get to work with me," Eames instructed. "What idea do you want planted in the mark's mind? Remember, something simple."

"Simple, huh? Okay, what about: I want to send Sansa home."

Eames looked at Arthur who waggled his hand but didn't look up. It might work. He trusted Eames to work his magic to suss it out.

"Might do," Eames allowed. "What do we know about Fury's motivations?"

At their identical confused looks, Eames tried again. "Okay, what are Fury's specific duties? What is his actual job?"

"Save the world," Dean said. "Join the frigging club."

"He heads the Avengers," Sam said with a pointed look at Dean. "He recruited them and made them into a team as a way to have a global protection task force."

Eames shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. Arthur was fairly sure one hand was wrapped around a poker chip. "Global, huh? Guy like that, job that big," he shrugged. "Has to have a good reason for doing it."

"What does that matter?" Dean grumbled, and Arthur looked up.

"It matters a lot if we're going into his head," he said. "If he has plans for world domination, I'd like to know that up front."

There was silence from the five of them, until Dean straightened. "We're going to need some help."


	16. Sansa Takes One for the Team

The men around her debated whether or not to call Nat, and if so, what they should say, and Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and tried to listen to things she didn't quite understand. Eames had asked her to be here, and so she had stayed, but her resolve and her patience were wearing thin.

She should have known that Eames and Arthur, with their all-seeing eyes, would have known more than they let on. Yes, she had been forging the beginnings of a plan. She would get to somewhere called New York and talk to someone named Fury, who apparently had an eyepatch, and she would do it without transportation, food, or a single copper to her name, but if she had to, then she would. It wasn't the first time she'd been set in front of the impossible, and she didn't intend to fail.

Because she couldn't stay here any longer.

She thought it every time she sank into the heavenly softness of her very own bed, which had been given to her with no expectations. She felt a pang of guilt every time Sam handed her a plate piled high with food like it was nothing, and she had to force herself to save half of every bite. But most of all, she couldn't stop herself from enjoying everything this world had to offer. From the toilet facilities to the quiet, responsibility-free evenings spent in a library, or cleaning dishes, or chatting with Sam or Dean, it would be so easy to just… relax into it.

And she couldn't allow herself to do that. She had people who were counting on her and she had somewhat of a life to get back to.

Plus, there was that other thought. The one she refused to put a name to, even in the privacy of her own head. The one that fluttered when she dragged her eyes over Dean's shoulders, or when his fingers brushed hers, or when she heard his unmistakable step outside her door and found herself wishing he'd open it. The one Nat had assumed was there before Sansa herself had.

That thought needed to be banished. And quickly. It had no place in Westeros, and therefore no place inside her. It was a deceitful bright bloom, because if she allowed it to grow, it would turn all else inside her to rot.

Even now, deep in discussion, elbows on his knees and forehead furrowed in concentration, he was an ample distraction.

"What do you think, Lady Sansa?" Sam asked her, and Dean's head swiveled to her, eyebrows expectant.

Sansa blinked and looked to Arthur and Eames, who just looked back.

"I cannot stay here," she croaked in her own defense.

She got confused faces from everyone except Arthur, who just looked concerned.

"We know, love," Eames said gently. "That's why we need you to talk to Nat. Think you can do it?"

Sansa straightened and pulled herself together. "Of course. Arthur, do you have the list?"

He blinked at her. "List?"

"Of what you'd like me to find out," she explained. She held out a hand and he gave her a small smile.

"Well, no," he admitted, "one second."

Sansa nodded while he wrote and she could feel Dean's eyes on her but she refused to look. It warmed her all over though, and she felt the heft of her clothing weighing her down.

She looked over the list he'd created and nodded to Dean that she was ready. She stood, because it made her feel better, and Dean set his phone on the table. When Nat's husky, "Dean?" came out of the air, Sansa was ready.

"No, Nat, it's Sansa, actually."

There was a pause and then, "Everything alright?"

"Yes, but I could use your help. You said to let you know if I had questions, isn't that correct?"

Dean crossed his arms and started to pace, and Arthur sat writing something in his book, forehead creased. Sansa tried to ignore everyone.

"Yes, but—" Nat said, hesitant.

"Excellent. I talked to your Tony, and he directed me to discuss the Tesseract with someone named Fury. I have every intention of handling this on my own, but I hate to walk into a battle blind and unarmed. Do you think you could give me some information?"

At Nat's long silence, Sansa added, "I am only trying to follow your advice. One way or the other."

Dean stopped pacing and the whole room held their breath while they waited for her reply.

"Alright," Nat said at last, and Sam and Eames closed their eyes in relief. "What do you need to know?"

* * *

"So we've got a man with a savior complex and a highly developed sense of paranoia," Eames said. "Perfect."

Dean dragged a hand through his hair and Sansa looked away from his tired, drawn face and stood.

"We don't need to get close," Arthur said. "If we can distract him, I should be able to hit him with a sedative."

"He does not know me," Sansa said. "Perhaps I can get close."

"We can't count on that," Sam said, an apology in his eyes. "If Tony knows you're here, Fury probably does too."

"Okay," Arthur said. "Sounds like we're going to need to recon a way to get closer. In the meantime, we need to come up with what we're going to do once we're closer. Let's work on what we're actually incepting him with."

"How about this," Eames said slowly, rubbing his jaw, and Arthur sat up straighter. "We want Fury to come to the conclusion that the best solution is to send Sansa home, yes? So we work with the savior complex. Fury already feels he needs to protect Earth, so we drop the idea that Sansa is a threat. It's a problem for her to be here and the only way to fix this is to send her back."

Sansa started to nod. "That could—"

"No."

Dean's gruff voice was flat and final.

Eames looked annoyed for the first time since Sansa had met him. "And why not?"

"Because I'm not going to let her be considered a threat to the human race by the one man who could actually do something about it. It's not happening. Find another way."

Sansa pursed her lips, but Arthur made a face like he agreed and they retreated to their figurative corners. Sansa watched Dean pace, arms folded, tugging lightly on his bottom lip. He was protecting her.

It was curious. He'd made it very clear that his goal was to help her return to Westeros, but he'd also claimed that his only mission was hunting monsters and keeping Sam safe. The thought of Dean protecting her was dangerous too. She wondered how Sam felt about it when Dean did it to him.

Sam was frowning at his laptop, but his fingers were still. He didn't appear to need Dean's protection, and yet he had it. It made it a little more palatable, and possibly a little more dangerous. She wondered what Dean would think about protecting her if he knew more about her past. About Ramsey and everything she'd done to survive. Would he find her to be one of his monsters too?

"What if…" Sam started, still frowning. He looked up to find all of them looking at him expectantly. He shifted on his chair. "What if maybe instead of her being a threat, Fury needs to send her back because she is the savior of her world. Maybe we show him he has the ability to protect more than just his own world, but worlds beyond."

They thought about it, and Arthur's face didn't say no, and Eames was already working it out, she could tell. That only left…

"Is that really going to work though?" Dean objected. "Is Fury the kind of guy who is going to wake up from an impromptu nap and decide he needs to help save some other world?"

"Someone does," Sansa muttered to herself, and pressed her lips together when four heads swiveled to her.

"What do you mean, love?" Eames asked.

Sansa felt heat rush to her face, but she licked her lips. "I've already been here too long. The dead were advancing from the north when I left, and everything we'd done before to push them back had only slowed them down."

"So you're saying it's not just an idea we have to plant in his head," Arthur said. "It's actually the truth."

Sansa nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid it is."

Arthur sat up a little straighter. "So we just need to show him." He looked at Eames. "We need a build that shows the true danger, and have the zombie whatevers be the projections. We can use it to pull him into the second layer."

"Arthur," he said gravely, "we can't run a two-man inception."

Arthur raised a cool eyebrow and gestured to the rest of them.

Eames' eyes lit up and he looked at Sansa with a small grin. "My lady. Do you think you could picture a big scary horde of zombie whatevers for me?"

Sansa gave him a wry smile. "Yes, I am absolutely sure. That I can do."

Dean drew up to the table. "Well, alright then. Let's get to work."


	17. Dean Hates this Whole Thing

This whole thing was stupid and Dean hated it. Eames was a smart guy, and Arthur knew what he was talking about, but he'd been listening to them discuss sneaking up on  _Nick Fury_  of all people, and this was the dumbest thing he'd ever been involved in. And he'd been involved in a lot.

"Look, just because you're scared of him," Sam said, and Dean bristled.

"I am not scared of him, Sam, I'm not scared of anything. But the man literally has an entire company of spies to watch his back, and you think you guys are going to attack him with, what, a blow dart?"

Arthur got defensive then, and they went another round about why it could work, why it was worth a shot, what they needed to do to make it successful and on, and on.

"Are you alright, Dean?" Sansa asked as he rose.

"Yeah," he clipped. "Just getting some air. You guys seem like you've got..." he gestured, "this."

At his back, Eames launched into another possible breakdown of the "Sansa as a hero" idea to feed to Fury, and Dean just shook his head. Sometimes being the common sense of the group was not as simple as stating the obvious.

The evening was crisp and cool, and Dean welcomed it. There was a small set of woods around the bunker, and he took off at a brisk pace, looking to clear his head as well as put some distance between himself and everyone inside.

Well, maybe not everyone.

Sansa was wearing a pearl pink shirt, buttoned up to the collar and tucked into her jeans. She looked amazing, like always, and he  _had_  to stop thinking about her.

Sometimes he'd catch himself watching her study something she didn't understand, that furrow between her eyebrows, and he wanted to buy her a house and a picket fence and keep her as far away from him and his demons, both real and personal, as he possibly could. He could do it, he thought. He could protect her from the shit of this world  _and_  the other one. She didn't need to spend time worrying about saving part of her french fries for later, or global warming, or learning how the microwave worked. And she sure as hell didn't have to spend time worrying about vampires and whatever this dream crap was.

But other times… other times he would see the jut of her stubborn jaw, or the cool heat in her ice-blue eyes, and he wanted to give her a gun and a hatchet and make sure she knew how to use them. He wanted to try again, the way he hadn't with Lisa, let her see this life for real. The way it was, the bullshit and the blood, but also the way it could be. Sometimes after they'd fixed whatever problem was in front of them, when they'd given a family some closure or made sure no one was going to get hurt again, it was good. Especially in the beginning, Dean had felt he could make a difference. Maybe it could be that way again. Maybe—

"Holy shhhhhhh…" Dean jumped at the white shadow that materialized next to his elbow, a warm wet tongue lapping over his knuckles and scaring the hell out of him. " _Damn_  it, Ghost. You have  _got_  to stop doing that."

The wolf just snuffed out what sounded a lot like a laugh and looked up at Dean with big, innocent eyes. Dean sighed.

"Yeah, alright, ya big dumb dog," he said, dragging his hands over Ghost's giant head.

Ghost's eyelids immediately slipped halfway closed, and he leaned into Dean's hands. Dean smiled despite himself and scratched behind his ears. The fur on Ghost's head was silky but got rougher and denser as he got down to his mane. The thick ruff of fur around his neck was so deep his hand disappeared as he kept scratching, and Ghost let out a groan that made Dean chuckle.

"You like that?" he said, and Ghost looked up with tongue lolling.

"Oh, no, no nonono," Dean said even as Ghost jumped up to put his paws on Dean's shoulders. "Oof," Dean huffed, "you are god damned heavy, you know tha—ACK!"

Ghost's tongue laved over Dean's whole face, including inside his open mouth.

"Pbbth! Ppft! Ack, stop it, mmmm, mmm!"

Dean finally squeezed his lips shut and Ghost licked him a few more times for good measure before he finally got down. Dean glared as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "Great. That's just… thanks a lot. I always wanted to be covered in dog slobber and brush my teeth with an animal tongue. Perfect." But Ghost just ignored him and Dean spit into the bushes and found a solid tree where the ground was dry.

When Dean settled against the trunk, Ghost flopped down next to him with a sigh and rested his considerable weight against Dean's thighs. Head on his paws, Ghost watched their surroundings lazily, and Dean took it as a sign he could probably relax for a second too. His fingers found Ghost's silky head and he ran them over that fur as he thought.

"It's not that I don't want to send you guys home, you know," he said. Ghost didn't appear to care, but Dean felt the need to defend himself to the voices in his head. "I do. You probably have some lucky she-wolf who makes you howl at the moon back there waiting for you." Ghost looked at him balefully and Dean grinned. "You probably just want to get out of here, raise a couple of pups. Am I right?"

Ghost didn't answer and Dean kept stroking his head. "I mean, you deserve that. Or, you know, whatever would make you happy. So it's not that I don't want you to have that," he said. And then, under his breath, "Both of you."

He fell quiet as he petted Ghost, and he found himself looking towards the bunker, a vague shape in the growing darkness. He had to face the fact that he couldn't give them that here, though. Sansa, whatever she may want, whatever he may want to give her, had obligations back home. She was a powerful woman, respected and feared, and she was worth more than being stuck behind a picket fence and kept from everything. She was worth more than the dirt and calluses this job required, too. He had to send her back. And if this dream garbage was the way to do it, well, he'd better sit down, shut up, and do what he was told. He couldn't mess this up for Sansa. She deserved so much more than him.

Ghost's head settled on his leg and Dean drifted to sleep under cold and distant stars.

* * *

Dean woke up to a giant wolf paw landing very near the family jewels and he groaned before he opened his eyes. "Oh, god damn it you big stupid  _dog_ ," he grumbled.

"Ghost!" came Sansa's voice. "There you are. Have you seen Dean? He said… oh. Dean."

"Hey," Dean grunted, leaning heavily against the tree. The moon was high overhead, and Dean's head was clouded and slow.

"Are you quite alright?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah," Dean said, straightening. "Are you guys still planning this dumb dream intervention thing?"

Sansa stood very still. "Yes," she said, and that one word sounded like the cracks on an ice-covered lake, waiting to collapse and pull you under.

Dean sighed in acceptance. "Alright then. Tell me what I need to do."

Sansa raised an eyebrow but turned to lead him back to the bunker. "We will need to travel to New York, eventually" she cautioned, and Dean winced.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that. Well, whatever it takes."

It was a throwaway phrase, something he said to Sammy all the time, but Sansa looked shocked. She even stopped walking to stare at him.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why... what?"

Sansa narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure him out. "Why would you do whatever it takes for me, Dean? You barely know me. I am a stranger here. I am a burden, and of no use to you, and—"

"Hey, stop it, alright?" Dean ground out. "I'm the one who messed up, I'm the one who fixes it. End of story."

"You didn't 'mess up'," she scoffed. "You saved my life. And Ghost's. We wouldn't have escaped the dead if that opening hadn't been there. And—"

"And then I trapped you here with no way to get home to your family or your responsibilities. So just stop. You want to go back, I'll get you back. We will find a way. We always do. Okay?"

Dean realized he was leaning into her space, pointing at her, and eased back.

"Besides. You're not a burden. And stop saving food, okay? You don't need to do that."

Her lips tightened, but she didn't say anything so Dean turned to keep walking. When they entered the bunker minutes later, Arthur had pulled a whiteboard into the war room and Sam had his thinking face on.

"It's going to take at least three levels to feed him the idea slow enough," Arthur explained. "So we'll need three dreamers, and one person to stay with Fury through the whole dream to make sure it develops and sticks." He looked up to see them enter and gestured Sansa over.

"Sansa, I'm going to have you be our initial dreamer."

"I don't know what that means, Ser Arthur."

"Yeah," Dean echoed. "Ditto."

Arthur's eyes lit up as he talked about the device used to control and share the "dreamspace", but Dean felt lost after the first minute.

"What we need," Arthur said, looking to Sansa, "is for you to recreate Westeros in your mind to show Fury what it's really like."

Sansa arched an eyebrow at him. " _All_  of Westeros?"

Dean felt a smile tug at his lips, but Arthur frowned and continued the explanation. "No, no, just one specific area or building even. We're going to create a maze, something you'll know and be able to navigate, and then your subconscious will populate the space with the white walkers you were talking about."

Sam raised his hand like he was in grade school and Dean rolled his eyes. "And... why are we making a maze again?"

Arthur smiled. "It will keep the projections, or white walkers, in this instance, from actually being able to track you down and expel you from the dream. See, the mind knows something's going on, and it'll start actively trying to locate anyone who doesn't belong. They know you're not supposed to be there, and the more we try to change things, the more agitated they'll get."

There was a beat of silence while they all processed that before Sam asked gently, "And how much are we going to change things?"

Arthur frowned, thinking. "Not as significantly as the other layers of the dream, but Sansa, you'll be in your dream the longest, so the danger is exponentially greater because the projections will have more time to get to you."

Sansa asked, "And the wights will be... more agitated? You mean... more so than they normally are."

"Well, yeah," Arthur said, seeing the concern. "I mean..."

"I'm going to be the dreamer with her," Dean said, making sure Arthur everyone in the room knew he wasn't asking, he was telling.

"Okay, but it doesn't really—"

"I don't care," Dean snapped. "You figure out a way. We're not leaving her with a hoard of pissed off zombies coming after her and nothing but the hope that they won't be able to figure out a maze."

Arthur clenched his jaw and looked at Eames, but he nodded, and that's all Dean cared about. He refused to look at Sam, but Sansa glanced over, and he couldn't help but see a small, warm smile on her lips.

"Sam," Arthur continued, "you're the dreamer on the second level. Now, your dream doesn't need to be anything fancy, but it's also going to be a maze. So just something familiar you can hold in your head so you can focus on fending off any projections you might encounter."

Sam nodded. "No problem. I think I can take care of myself," he said with a chuckle.

Dean shifted, his gut clenching. "You sure, Sammy?"

Sam turned in his chair to stare at him. "Yeah, Dean, I'm sure. I've fought enough real demons, I think I can handle the fake dream kind. Why? You gonna demand to be the dreamer on my level too?"

Dean gritted his teeth but said nothing, and Sam turned back around.

Arthur looked between them carefully before he continued. "Well, Mr. Eames. That leaves the two of us. One to help build dreams, and one to perform inception on the scariest man with an eye patch this side of the planet."

Eames grimaced. "Can we draw straws?"

Arthur snorted like he'd said something funny and looked at him like he'd brought him fucking flowers. Dean rolled his eyes. These two.


End file.
